Sketches of the Wardens of Ferelden
by quickand2thepointless
Summary: COMPLETE. Duncan tours Ferelden for recruits, and ends up with a few more than he bargained for. A story of the lives and loves of the Wardens of Ferelden as they face up to the Blight and their own inner demons. T for language and sexuality.
1. Dulcia Cousland: The Lady of Highever

**A/N:**This is my first DAO fic, and I hope to do one of my favorite games justice. This collection of one shots will focus on the different loves and lives of the six possible Wardens as if Duncan had been able to recruit them all, with each chapter altering perspective. Since I couldn't fit in the summary, the different pairings I will be including are fCousland/Alistair, fAmell/Cullen, mTabris/Zevran, mMahariel/Morrigan, fBrosca/Leliana, fAeducan/Gorim (if you don't like same sex, you've come to the wrong place). First up is Dulcia Cousland!

**Disclaimer:**The marvelous characters (for the most part) belong to Bioware

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**One. Dulcia Cousland: The Lady of Highever**

There are more books than anyone will ever read in the Cousland library. Tall, fat ones filled with maps and old lore telling of heroes who ride winged beasts and slay demons corrupted by magic. Leather bound histories of noble families, her own included. Paperbacks with ripped covers that once were the diaries of her ancestors. Manuals on behaving in the manner of a true lady, which will one day surely find their way into her hands with help from her sister-in-law, who knows better than anyone how much of a true lady she is not.

Dulcia Cousland stares at the titles written in cursive on the spines, reading them one by one until her eyes blur and nothing is distinguishable. It is better not to see anything, to feel nothing, she thinks. Better to become numb than indulge in her temper and embarrass herself further. Even if she yells and screams and demands attention, all she will hear is another flat 'No, you are a lady and a Cousland, your place is here within these walls and nowhere else'. From her father, her mother, Ser Gilmore, Fergus, Oriana, even Duncan, who had seemed so impressed by her until her father had forbidden his interest. She can't help but wonder why anyone bothered to train her as a warrior if this is the life she is meant for. Perhaps her father's work in honing her skills was just a game to him, a lark to humor his spirited daughter.

Rolf emits a long, sonorous whine at her feet, then chews on the rawhide bone Dulcia has stolen from the larder. The two of them are supposed to be in Fergus' room, saying their grand goodbye to the toast of Highever and promising to be good while he heads off like a hero to Ostagar to fight the onslaught of darkspawn that the whispers of servants insist is a Blight. Dulcia wishes she was a good enough person to be happy for her brother, but she isn't, or at least not today. Just the sight of Fergus with Oriana is enough to make her ill. If everyone had their way, she would be just like her pretty little sister-in-law, always the dutiful wife, always prudent and pure and decorative.

_The __idea __of __women __fighting __is __unthinkable __in __Antiva_, Oriana always says, as if the customs of Antiva have any weight in Dulcia's life. _They're __only __dangerous __in __kindness __and __poison, __as __you __would __be, too, __if __you __had __any grasp __on __the __concept __of __subtlety._

"I want to break something," Dulcia tells Rolf, running her foot along his matted fur. "I don't want to be a good daughter anymore."

Rolf barks and turns over onto his back, exposing his belly for her to run her fingers across. She obliges him, and he licks her hand in pleasure, loving her just enough to make her forget her pain.

"You two suit each other well, my lady," a voice says from the threshold of the room. Dulcia does not turn around. She knows this voice. It is a voice that approaches her reverently, like one would approach an expensive vase too lovely to touch. She has known him as a friend of the family ever since she was a child, and never has he changed in regards to her, even after all this time.

"We are very much alike, my hound and I" she says, continuing to scratch Rolf's belly. "We are lovable and charming, and we must content ourselves to eat everyone else's scraps."

Dairren takes a seat beside her, resting his elbow on the table so it is almost touching hers. She feels the heat coming from him, warm and comforting like a fire in winter. "I did not expect to find you here," he says. "I thought your family was with Fergus."

"They are." She at last turns to look at him. There are small beads of sweat spotting his forehead; he is still nervous around her. Dulcia's lips turn up in a smile. She likes this feeling of being feared by a man, of being recognized for the dangerous force she is

Dairren returns her gaze for a moment, then looks away. "I see you have chosen your books over your family," he says. "I didn't you know you were that much of a reader."

"Only if it's the right book."

" Now you've piqued my interest. What kind of book do you like?"

"_The __Art __of __Passionate __Love_," she says, keeping her voice serious though she had only caught a glimpse of it once from a servant before it was confiscated by Oriana.

Dairren laughs in surprise. "Didn't the Chantry ban that? I can't believe you managed to get a peek at it. Was it any good?"

"Spectacular." Dulcia watches as more sweat accumulates on his pale skin. If she plays with him any more, she imagines that his cheeks will start burning. She wonders for a moment if she should keep playing. She has never done this before; this is straying into unknown territory, dancing on thin ice that could break under her feet and drown her. What would her mother say? What would Oriana? Does any of it even matter anymore?

"Dairren," she asks suddenly, pressing his elbow against his. "What do you think of me?"

"What do I... think of you? I don't know, my lady. We've only had a casual acquaintance. You're rather a mystery to me."

"Am I a mystery you would like to solve?"

Dairren coughs into his hand, covering his trembling mouth. "My lady?" he asks. She can smell the want coming from him, thick and heady like incense. He will take her if she asks him. Should she ask him? She can't think of a reason not to. She is not saving anything for anyone, and it is not such a precious gift to give away if she knows she will never meet anyone worthy of it, just endless seas of noble men who will blunt her sword and hide her in the shadows.

"Would you like to get to know me, Dairren?" she asks. Her hands stop moving and Rolf whines at the absence of her touch. Dairren does not notice. He stares at her, searching her face for a sign she is joking or teasing him. But she isn't.

"If you mean what I think you mean..."

"Then?" She leans forward. She has heard enough of 'no' for today. She wants to see his mouth move to form the beautiful syllable she is longing to hear. Yes, yes, yes.

"I suppose you have some place in mind?"

"I just might."

She takes his hand and pulls him up so he is standing beside her. He looks at her, his cheeks pink and delicate, and she looks back at him, a feeling of recklessness coursing through her body.

_I __wanted __to __break __something,_ she thinks as she pulls him forward, to her bedroom. _I __guess __my __heart __is __a __good __place __to __start._


	2. Alain Tabris: The Groom in the Alienage

**A/N:**Thanks for the early reads of the first chapter! This round will feature Alain Tabris, our second Warden and a shy, quiet city elf. This was actually my favorite origin story to complete, for reasons unknown. I guess I had a lot of fun complaining about my arranged marriage to anyone who would listen, not that anyone really did. As a side note, the name Alain is from France, and is pronounced like Ah-lahn. Hope you enjoy!

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**Two. Alain Tabris: The Groom in the Alienage**

Elder Valendrian is nearly swelling with pride as he approaches the altar where the four young elves are waiting. It has been many long years since the Alienage has seen an occasion as grand as this one, a double wedding between two of the most beloved children of the community and their accomplished mates fresh from Highever. Weddings are not uncommon in the Alienage- in fact, they are enforced with an almost religious fervor by the elder and the Chantry- but this particular wedding is of more interest than any other has been for some time. Alain Tabris, one of the elven grooms about to be given a wife, isn't sure if this distinction is due to his notoriety as Adaia's son, or if the so-called beauty of his betrothed is what drew the crowds to view the ceremony in the heart of the Alienage. Whatever the case is, Valendrian is clearly pleased with the turnout, and wastes no time in addressing his audience about the significance of this event, which every elf will one day experience for his or herself as a matter of tradition.

"Friends and family," Valendrian begins, "today we celebrate not only this joining, but also our bonds of kin and kind. This occasion is not solely for our dear brides and grooms, but for the betterment of our community as well."

Nesiara places her hand over Alain's, regarding her husband-to-be with a sweet and encouraging smile. He smiles back weakly, his stomach turning over and roiling like a tempest. Her teeth are too straight, he thinks. Her hair is too neat and silvery blonde, and her eyes remind him of rainwater caught in tin buckets after dropping from the ceiling through cracks in the roofs. He doesn't understand what everyone sees in her. She is no better than Valora with her wing-like ears and squinty gaze, even if she possesses a bit more elegance and poise than her counterpart. For all her alleged good looks and accomplishment, she is just a mere girl to him, gratingly groomed to believe in her own greatness and self-assured to the point where she will never understand how little he loves her, how much he loathes the idea of her becoming his wife.

"We are a free people," Valendrian continues, ignoring the sickly grimaces on the faces of Soris and Alain, who are both failing in their roles of happy grooms, "but that was not always so. Andraste, the Maker's prophet, freed us from the bonds of slavery, releasing us from our chains."

Alain snorts quietly at this. He doesn't feel free. If the elves insist on the liberation of their people, why are they chaining him to his unknown and self-important woman with no other reason than the preservation of tradition? When the arrangement was first made, he begged and begged against it. He had never cared for any woman since his mother had died, and every matron and maid that had surrounded him with their pity and tenderness after she was lost only disgusted him through the act of even daring to try to replicate the dear and perfect soul his mother had been. The idea of having to marry one of such false copies sickens him deeply, but what troubles him more is that there is no way out for him. His father hadn't offered one, and had only left him with a gentle reprimand about how marriage was his only route to becoming a full member of the community without remaining a child forever. And Valendrian was even less of a comfort, reminding him that his mother had made unconventional choices for herself, and look where that had gotten her.

"As our community grows, remember that our strength lies in commitment to tradition and to each other. Never again will our people be divided from within and sever our sacred bonds with one another."

Valendrian withdraws from the couples, and a Sister from the Denerim Chantry steps forward to state the covenant before them. Alain sways slightly on his feet. There is no going back now. With a few words, his fate will be sealed. From this day to his death, he will be made to stand beside this woman he does not know or love, bear children with her, and stay true to the vows he never wanted to make. He studies her face again, desperate to find something to draw him into her, some spark of attraction he has never felt before. But how will he even know what to look for? He's never been in love, or even strayed near anything close to it. No matter how closely he looks at her, she is still something foreign to him, and he is still indifferent to whatever charms she used to enrapture all the others.

"Alain, are you all right?" Nesiara whispers under her breath as the Sister talks about the Maker's love for Andraste and the duties of marriage. "You look very pale."

He opens his mouth, trying to produce the proper words to answer her. He has never been much of a talker, and he knows next to nothing about how to converse with a woman, especially one who would expect more delicacy and kindness than a man would. His father should have known to choose someone less seemingly desirable for his life partner. If it is so necessary for Alain to take a bride, he wishes he could have been placed with someone who desired little in life, and asked and expected nothing from him in return.

"I'm dizzy," he says at last, avoiding Nesiara's rainwater eyes. "It's too hot out here."

"Oh, yes. I agree. But this will all be over in a minute, so I hope you can bear up for now."

His heart throbs in pain. _It __will __all __be __over_. There is no other ending. In elven weddings, there is no consent to the vows, just vows thrown to the bride and groom with the expectation of obedience. There is nothing left for him to do but resign himself, or else pray to the Maker for some sort of disruption. A flood, a tornado, an earthquake swallowing them up. An Archdemon descending from the sky.

"Maker help us!" he hears Shianni suddenly shriek, a sound accompanied by the horrified gasps of the bridesmaids and guests. The Sister has stopped speaking. Nesiara grips onto Alain's hand and steps behind him, using him as a shield of protection.

It is no Archdemon. It is a man, a man who is by no means any less of a dangerous force to them than all the darkspawn in Ferelden. Vaughn's eyes rove over the crowds and up to the altar, settling first on Nesiara and then on Shianni. His mouth curls up into a smile. He gestures to his men, and they spill up upon the altar, hands grasping and pawing, clumsy as animals.

Alain clutches his stomach as Shianni is bound and his unwanted bride is taken away from him. His selfish, thoughtless prayer had been heeded, and now he would pay for his foolishness in blood.

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**Coming Next:**Alixire Amell, the Circle Tower's newest mage, is a mess of contradictions. Jaded by the unblinking eyes of the Chantry but infatuated with one of the Templars that watches her, how will she react when the chance to break free of her cage presents itself?


	3. Alixire Amell: Flight Risk of the Tower

**A/N:**Once again, thanks for the reads, reviews, and favorites. This one shot features the feisty Alixire Amell, a mage with a forbidden passion for a Templar from the Chantry she hates (and who just might choose the "This fat cow is your lover?" option when meeting Lily). Enjoy!

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**Three. Alixire Amell: Flight Risk of the Tower**

"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be called Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond."

The Revered Mother pauses, staring haughtily out into the faces of her captive audience. The yawns that had been circulating around the room at the sound of the all too familiar verses of the Chant of Light halt, and every eye, Templar and mage alike, focus with rapt attention on their spiritual leader. In the section of the Tower's Chantry where the young mages are set behind the untried apprentices, Alixire Amell sits on the fringes of their group, the newest among them after passing her Harrowing just a day earlier. She feigns interest as the Revered Mother's eyes pass over her, but as soon as she is free from scrutiny, she goes back to being as pointedly disinterested as ever.

Alixire glances over at Jowan. He is staring at Lily as if he is trying to write her a love sonnet with eyes, most likely a terrible one with nauseating allusions to candle flames and doves. She fights the urge to gag. As hard as it is to take anything Jowan says seriously, she can tell by his expression that he is earnest in his regard for Lily and his desire to escape the confines of the Tower. Whether she will be his accomplice or not is still in question, but no matter what side she chooses in the matter, it seems clear that he at least intends to go through with it.

The Revered Mother, satisfied with the amount of attention she is receiving, continues. "All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation-"

Alixire's turns her head slightly, revealing her well-structured, doe-eyed profile to where the Templars are standing, eyes glazed as they observe the mages. She catches Cullen's gaze for a brief second, and her lips curl upward in a flirtatious smile. Cullen looks away as quickly as he always does, his cheeks burning at her audacity as he realizes that she most certainly is _not_ paying attention to the Chantry service like she is obligated to as a mage of the Circle Tower, and then blushes further as he realizes that since he was staring at her, neither was he.

The Revered Mother drones on, unaware that even the most attentive of the senior enchanters are dozing off. Alixire rolls her eyes, vexed at this unquestionable waste of her time. In spite of how many verses exist in the Chant of Light, the Circle's Chantry never fails to hone in on only one: the one that admonishes those who practice magic. It is an important message for the mages to hear- there is no question of that- but Alixire finds the endless repetition in some ways counterproductive. For one, it teaches the mages to know very little of the Maker other than that He has cursed them with powers that would sooner or later earn His wrath if they are not well managed- a thought that does not endear Him to them at all- and secondly, the constant warning of being branded 'maleficar' does not seem a punishment frightening enough to make the idea of turning their gift against the self-important, preachy Revered Mother unappealing.

Her readings finally over, the Revered Mother shuts her book and turns her attention to Duncan, the Grey Warden who is visiting the Tower. Her smile is noticeably unwelcoming, given the fact that the Wardens are attempting to draw more mages from the Tower to assist at Ostagar than the Chantry is willing to release, but her words make a show of benevolence. "Brothers and sisters," she says, extending her hand to the burly, well-armed man, "we welcome the leader of the esteemed Grey Wardens to our home with open arms and great thanksgiving. During his stay here, I hope each and every one of us will follow the example of the Maker and let kindness and charity shine through our actions."

A couple of apprentices snigger softly, but Alixire only has smiles for the Warden. She had been the one to see him to his quarters when he arrived, and she found him to be a good man and more than worthy of respect.

"Did you know that there are mages in his order that he personally recruited from the Tower?" she'd told Cullen earlier as they stood in a cramped and lonely hallway, an area where they frequently met in secret when they had a spare moment or two. "Free mages! Just imagine it!"

"You do realize," he'd said, "that the fact that you say such things will get you in even more trouble with the Knight-Commander if he happens to overhear them. He already thinks you're at a high risk of becoming an apostate thanks to your excessive talent and disdain for the Chantry."

"Does he?" was Alixire's indifferent reply. "And what would he think if he knew one of his mage hunters had been ensnared by his flight-risk mage?"

Cullen had no answer for that then other than a miserable frown of shame.

At long last, the Revered Mother wraps up the service with a solemn prayer to Andraste to keep the mages on the path of truth and light. With a sigh of relief, the crowd slowly disperses away from the chapel, returning to their chambers and lessons and duties, glad that their obligation to the Maker and His bride is over and done with. Alixire lingers for a moment with Jowan, and Cullen also stays behind, keeping an eye on her.

"Have you decided yet, Alixire?" Jowan whispers, nodding towards Lily. "About our plan? We really can't do this without you, you know. Besides, you've always wanted to escape this place. What easier way is there than to tag along with us?"

"I just need a few more minutes," Alixire requests. "I was very tired yesterday, and I didn't have much time to think on it."

Jowan looks up at her like a wounded puppy. "Could you hurry, please? We need to do this now while everyone is still distracted by Duncan."

Alixire waves him off, promising to speak with him again in an hour when she'd made up her mind. As soon as he leaves the Chantry, she gestures for Cullen to follow her into the abandoned section of the library where unread books on the subject of Templar history are kept, a place where they could talk without being overheard by anyone else.

"What did _he_ want?" Cullen asks when they arrive, not without a little jealousy. "It's not a good idea for you to be seen so often with him. They say he's a blood mage, you know. They're thinking of making him tranquil."

"Yes, yes, I know," Alixire says.

"And besides, he's no good for you. He's always been bitter about your popularity and talent, even though he never pays attention to his studies like you do."

"Goodness, Cullen. You don't need to give me this lecture. It's not like I'm interested in marrying him, or anything." She smiles, but her frown quickly returns to her face. "I suppose my friendship with him isn't helping the rumors about me escaping, is it?"

"Of course not. You know, if you would just listen more to the Chantry-"

"The Maker reviles me, so how am I supposed to love Him?" Alixire asks, lifting an eyebrow. "And what use does He have for the love of someone whose talents corrupted His city? Can we not talk about the Chantry, please? We'll never agree on it."

"If that is your wish."

"It is. Now, let me ask you something. I assume you know a thing or two about ethical dilemmas, given the nature of your relationship with me. Tell me, what do you think someone should do if they are faced with a situation where every action they take will hurt someone they love? Is there a better path to take?"

"Alixire, if you're thinking about running away..."

"This is hypothetical. And I'm not going to run away, so put that out of your mind."

"Well, then. In these situations, it best to go with the path of righteousness, the one that the Maker would approve."

Alixire glares at him. "Oh? In that case, it doesn't seem like you follow your own advice. But suppose there really is no path of righteousness. Both ways involve losing someone's trust, and both ways lead you to do something unforgivable. What then?"

"Better then not to act at all. Or to decide whose trust you would most hate to lose." Cullen pauses. "Are you sure this is hypothetical? If you are in a bad situation right now, I could tell the Knight-Commander."

"No, that won't be necessary." Alixire stands on her toes and plants a kiss on Cullen's forehead. "You know, I only worry about these things because I am never sure of my standing with you. You're not the type of person to forgive me anything. If I do the wrong thing or you come to your senses about me, I fear everything will be over."

"And what about you? Your connection to this place is so tenuous that if you really get it in your head to leave, there will be nothing to convince you not to go. And then... everything will be over."

Alixire stares at her feet. Cullen is usually right in his judgments of her, but this time she can't help but think that he isn't. She has one thing, only one, to convince her to never leave the Circle, and though she wishes she could shed this hateful life and liberate herself from the eyes that watch her and the Maker she does not love or understand, her one reason to stay keeps her neatly in her place.

"I guess there is only one answer, then," she says, turning away from Cullen to exit the library. "Thank you for your assistance."

"What do you mean? Where are you going?" he calls after her. "You're not going back to Jowan, are you?"

"No," she says, keeping her heart resolute. "I'm going to find First Enchanter Irving."

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**Coming Up:**Hannon Mahariel has always had a taste for dangerous things, but when his natural curiosity threatens the safety of his friend, will he be able to hold it back in time to save his life?


	4. Hannon Mahariel: Child of the Forest

**A/N:**I wrote this during my post-Thanksgiving food coma, which was a fairly interesting experience. My hands were pretty much my only body parts that were able to function. As for my brain, I can only hope it was working enough to write this. Hooray for the American custom of gorging ourselves to show our gratitude for family, friends, and food. Once again, thanks for the reads, reviews, and all other forms of support. This chapter features Hannon Mahariel, a Dalish elf with a taste for the untamed things in life.

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**Four. Hannon Mahariel: Child of the Forest**

The forest becomes a blur as Hannon dashes through it, the sylvans and larches appearing like smears of paint on the canvas of the undulating and rich landscape. Every now and then he can see the wildlife poke their heads out between the trees, watching his progress with curious and benevolent eyes. He is not an intrusion to this place in their consideration; he is a part of the forest itself, a friend of every branch and leaf and animal that resides in its embrace.

"Hannon!" he hears Tamlen call to him from farther along the path. The smaller elf is more energetic and swift, but he relies on Hannon's greater prowess with the bow to keep them safe. Usually they have nothing to fear from the forest, but rumors have reached their ears of dark creatures roaming Ferelden, foul and tainted beasts that blight the land and spread disease. No elf in the Sabrae clan has met such a foe, but their lore tells them that their existence is no fantasy. They are the defilers of the Old Gods, the ruins of the Tevinter mages. The darkspawn.

"Hannon!" Tamlen calls again. "Mahariel! If you go any slower, we'll never reach the ruins before dark."

"Coming." Hannon increases his paces and runs astride Tamlen. "Do you think the shemlen were telling the truth about this place?" he asks.

"It's likely. These forests are known for their secrets, and it would be an insult to the gods to pretend as if we know them all."

"I hope you're right. It's been some time since we've encountered anything interesting in our travels. I've heard stories from other clans about wolf attacks in the east, but nowhere we go has any threat greater than wandering shemlen and missionaries."

"Would you like us to be attacked by wolves, lethallin?"

"It would at least give me a chance to use my bow for things other than the hunt."

Tamlen grins at his companion. "You always did have too much pride in your talent. Just because you have more pelts than anyone else in the clan doesn't mean you can strut about like a prize bird."

"When we find priceless treasure in the ruins, that will give me more than enough provocation to strut." Hannon pauses, and extends his hand to hold Tamlen back. "Stay a moment. I think I hear something."

"More shemlen?" Tamlen strings his bow and points it blindly into the forest. "I don't see anything. Except..." He takes a few tentative steps forward and peers through the trees. "That hill looks like it has an opening in it. Do you think this could be the cave we're looking for?" He takes a few more steps, lowering his bow.

"Stop," Hannon hisses. "My hearing is twice as good as yours, and I hear movement in the direction of that cave. There are dark spirits close to us. We should be wary."

"You think there are darkspawn here? Well, now is your chance to prove yourself as a hunter. I'm sure they'll be no match for you."

"But if you keep on running ahead, you'll be tainted before I can even ready my bow. You should follow behind me until we clear the area."

"Follow behind you? You just don't want me to beat you to the treasure, Hannon-who-hates-to-lose."

"I'll remember those kind parting words when you are a ghoul, lethallin."

Tamlen sighs in annoyance. "Fine. Ma nuvenin. I'll follow behind you for the time being."

Hannon nocks an arrow and slowly approaches the cave entrance, inhaling the scent of the air around him. It smells foul, like death and spoiled flesh. He can hear more rustling within the opening, and he wets his lips in anticipation. It has been some time since his weapon had tasted the blood of a worthy foe, and he longs for a great victory, a challenge to add glory to his name and clan.

The two Dalish creep into the cave, studying the statues and art that mark the inner chamber. "Almost looks Tevinter," Tamlen comments, reaching out to touch a figure of an elven woman. "If it wasn't for the ears, I'd be tempted to think these ruins were human. I've never seen work like this before in our clan."

"Do you think it could be from the days of Arlathan?"

"You think?" Tamlen's eyes light up. "If you're right, we may have just made a magnificent discovery for our tribe. When we're done exploring here, we should call for the Keeper."

"Not without finding a few relics first, of course," Hannon says. "And I sense an ancient magic in this place that I'd like to study."

"Magic again? You're so obsessed with it that it's almost a shame that you weren't born a mage."

"Our culture is steeped in magic. It would be a shame to neglect it in study, especially if it helps us fully realize the powers of kind. If we do not pursue power, we are little better than fools."

"As you say, lethallin. But I'm more interested in artifacts that will get us some coin at the moment. If you'd like to stay behind and study, I'll go on ahead." Before waiting for Hannon's answer, he bounds further down the hall.

"What did I say about you following behind me?" Hannon calls after him. "If you die, I'll have no kind words for you at your funeral."

Tamlen only laughs in response.

"Better go after him," Hannon sighs. "The magic I sense is further in, mingled with the darkness I felt earlier. If I don't look out for him, he'll end up dead for sure."

Hannon delves further into the tunnel, using the different smells in the air as his guide. To his dismay, he realizes Tamlen's smell- leather and halla fur- has already mixed with the smell of rotten flesh.

"Tamlen!" he cries, his voice echoing against the walls. "Lethallin!"

"Over here! I think I've found something!"

"Keep your bow out until I can find you."

"Hush, you nag. Come and see this!"

Hannon follows the sound of his voice and arrives at a chamber with two large statues clutching an ornate mirror between them. Tamlen stands in front of it, his eyes fixed in awe on the misty blue surface of the glass.

"What do you think?" he asks, his smile growing. "Definitely Arlathan, right?"

"Must be." Hannon approaches the mirror reverently, admiring its architecture. "I've never heard of anything of its kind, but perhaps the Keeper would know. All I know is that power is flowing from it in droves, power like I've never felt before."

"Then why not take of that power for ourselves before the Keeper can get her hands on it?" Tamlen asks. "Once we take this news to our clan, these treasures will be out of our hands for good." He reaches a hand forward to touch the mirror.

"Hold, lethallin," Hannon barks. "Are you such a fool that you would touch an object of unknown power? I smell death and blight from this artifact. Best let the Keeper take stock of it first."

"Are you such a fool that you would let this opportunity to study magic first hand slip from your grasp? You've thirsted for power and glory all your life, and now you're giving it up?"

Hannon hesitates. Only for one single second, but a second is enough to alter the course of two lives forever, for better or for worse. In a second, a move forward can be completed, a suspended hand can connect with cursed glass, a taint can be unleashed.

The words "Stay your hand, Tamlen" can only half fall from Hannon's lips before the darkness consumes him, blemishing the fabric of his soul forever.

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**Coming Up:**Tired of playing second string to her beautiful and well-liked sister, Britomart Brosca is determined to make a name for herself even though the obstacles of her lack of caste and the constant manipulation of a corrupt carta lord threaten her at every turn.


	5. Britomart Brosca: The Pawn of the Carta

**A/N:**Now that I've finished up my 10 page paper for Lit Theory (oh the joys of pre-finals week), I can get back to writing. Christmas break is on the horizon, which means I am only days away from getting a new laptop with better gaming capabilities, which means I will finally FINALLY be able to play Dragon Age 2 (among other things). To say that I am looking forward to it would be putting it mildly. Anyways, this chapter features Britomart Brosca, our jaded casteless dwarf who just can't seem to earn recognition for her talent, strength, and beauty (next chapter's star Lady Aeducan is also mentioned). For a fun fact, the name Britomart comes from a female warrior in the Faerie Queene, which I think suits our heroine very well. Enjoy!

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**Five. Britomart Brosca: The Pawn of the Carta**

There is a silk dress folded on the bed, dove gray with a beaded belt around the waist that glitters like it is made of diamonds. Britomart Brosca draws a finger across the fabric, feeling the material of a noblewoman's gown for the very first time. It is shockingly insubstantial compared to the leather and armor she has been wearing all her life to play the role of a carta thug, but at the same time, she can't help but consider what it would feel like pressed all along her rough bronze skin. Would it make her become somebody important, she wonders? Would it overshadow her brand and permit her to have free reign over the halls of Orzammar as every other dwarf of consequence does?

"Best not touch that, sister," Rica says from the threshold of the room. She is half done up in her makeup, her red hair pinned into braids at the back of her head. "Beraht dropped a fortune on that, and if we soil it, there's no way we'll be able to pay it back."

Britomart draws her hand away. "Yes we would. He'd just work me to death in compensation."

"All the more reason not to soil it."

Rica sits down on her bed and draws a line of blue shadow across her eyes, humming under her breath. She is supposed to be the pretty one out of the two of them, even though their polar opposite appearances leave little room for comparison. Rica was born fair skinned and red headed, with a sweet little snub nose and freckled face, while Britomart was darker like their father, with tanned skin with a full head of choppy raven black hair that reached to her waist when it wasn't pulled back in a band. As a child, Britomart was found to be more exotic looking than her classical sister, but when Britomart was older and the rumors about her first began circulating, Rica became everyone's unanimous favorite since she was not only very charmingly pretty, but also a nicer girl than her allegedly tasteless sister.

"Rica," Britomart says suddenly, sitting down on the bed beside her sister, "I really wish you wouldn't do this to yourself."

"The noble hunting? It's an inevitable solution to raising our caste, and since you refuse to do it and mother is an old drunk, it falls to me to take care of this family."

"But this can't be the best way for us. If you give me some time, I know I'll become a warrior strong enough to sustain this family."

Rica smiles, a look akin to pity flickering across her eyes. "Britomart, a casteless warrior is like an ancient coin. It may have all the value in the world, but it is worth nothing. Please understand, sister. I am so close to success. I can be the way for our family."

Britomart's face flushes, and she turns away from Rica. "You can do as you like," she says, keeping her tone from succumbing to the bitterness in her heart, "but I swear to you that one day I will make something of our name, and _I_ will do it with honor!"

Without another word, she rises from the bed and exits the room to head onto the streets of Dust Town where Leske is waiting for her.

"There you are, Brosca," he greets her, yawning in between words. "You took so long that I thought I might have to burst in on you and that spicy sister of yours. Ga-row. It's been too many days since that time I almost walked in on her undressing."

"You do realize," Britomart says coolly, "that Rica is losing her figure thanks to all the sweets she's been getting in the Diamond Quarter. Me or any other woman you'd find in the carta would have a fitter body thanks to the fact that we actually get off our asses and work for ourselves."

"Heh, the kind of work that women do that I like is the kind they do on their backs. And besides, we all know that you don't play nice with boys, so what's the point of comparing yourself with your sister?"

Britomart's hands find her twin daggers, and she withdraws them instinctively. "Say another word and I'll cut off your tongue, Leske."

"Why? I didn't say anything that wasn't true. Besides, I heard Lady Aeducan was out and about in the Commons today. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll catch a peek of her at the Provings. Everyone says she's a sodding gorgeous little thing."

Britomart bares her teeth. "Not another word."

0o0o0o0o0o0o

The Grey Warden stands high above the crowd on the Proving Master's balcony, his eyes following the warriors' movements with careful study. Britomart can just barely see him through the slats in Everd's helmet, but just the sensation of knowing he is watching her is enough. She has heard of the Grey Wardens all of her life, even seen a scattered few heading for the Deep Roads to meet their deaths, and ever since she was a child she was enamored with them. Dwarves who joined the Wardens, even though doing so meant they would become surfacers, were honored above all others with the exception of the Royal Family and the Paragons. Even the casteless could be esteemed if they proved themselves worthy as Wardens, and their fate could be changed in the Memories by the Shaper himself. Even though the glory she was gaining was under Everd's name, all that mattered to Britomart was that Duncan saw her and recognized her talent. At least one person would think of her in a context other than the one she had earned from the ruthless Dust Town rumor mill.

"And the winner is Everd!" the Proving Master cries as Britomart vanquishes her opponent. The audience roars for her, stamping their feet and calling out "Everd, Everd, Everd!"

"Now comes the moment we have long awaited. Our champion from the warrior caste, Everd, will now cross blades with the champion from the Glory Proving hosted by the Aeducans. Children of the stone, please stand up for the coming of-"

All eyes turn towards the gate where the arrival of Lady Arlindria Aeducan is anticipated. Britomart squints through her helmet. There is certainly a dwarf standing there, but something doesn't feel right. The crowd has gone silent, and Britomart cannot discern the shock of honey colored hair that Lady Aeducan is known for on this dwarf's head.

The figure stumbles forward. "My match has started already?" he slurs, almost falling forward in his drunken stupor. "Look, look! Someone stole my armor!"

"It's Everd!" someone yells. "I recognize him from our expedition!"

"If that's him, than who's in his armor?" someone else asks.

"An imposter? By the stone, is this an insult to the ancestors?" Britomart can tell from the thundering tone that this in the Proving Master speaking. "Stranger, unmask yourself and explain what you have done here! We will not countenance this interference with our sacred rites!"

Britomart freezes, glancing around her. Guards are approaching on either side, and the audience is leaning over their balconies to look at her. Even Duncan has stepped forward for a closer look, to see who the true warrior is.

_I __wanted __glory_, she reminds herself. _Even __if __this __brings __me __shame, __everyone __will __still __know __that __I __have __beaten __the __best __of __Orzammar's __warriors, __and __was __found __worthy __to __face __Lady __Aeducan __herself. __I __can __ask __for __no __more than __this._

Without any more delay, she slowly removes her helmet and shakes out her long black hair, crying, "Behold the one who has defeated you! A casteless woman is the victor of the Proving!" as the guards surround her and raise their weapons to silence the voice of an insolent brand.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up**: Lady Arlindria Aeducan believes she is the best politician and strongest warrior in all of Orzammar, but her scheming older brothers have other ideas for her when they realize the Princess may be straying too close to their throne.


	6. Arlindria Aeducan: Princess of Orzammar

**A/N:**And with this chapter, we have ended round one of the origin stories. After we get through their recruitment, we'll be getting into the meat of the story, which I am really, really, really excited for. Thanks for everyone who has read and reviewed thus far, and I hope you continue to enjoy. This chapter features Arlindria Aeducan, Princess of Orzammar, politician, and potential candidate for the throne of her kingdom.

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**Six. Arlindria Aeducan: Princess of Orzammar**

The halls of the Diamond Quarter are more filled than Lady Arlindria Aeducan, only daughter of the king of Orzammar, has ever seen them. Every face she knows from the Assembly and Royal Palace has come to wish her well, and some of her bolder admirers from the Commons have even slipped away from their duties to see her rise to the ranks of a warrior. The crowd tosses trinkets and luck charms into her entourage from every direction, which her soldiers catch and tuck into their breastplates as favors. One nobleman offers Arlindria a flower from the surface, and after she grants her approval, he tucks it in the band around her hair, blushing and stammering his congratulations like a nervous child.

"There should be a limit for your popularity, my lady," Gorim murmurs into her ear. "These past few days alone, you've gained even more people to your flock with your Provings victory and successful debut feast. And now you have your very own surface flower. What will be next?"

Arlindria smiles in satisfaction. "Are you jealous? You know I always carry your favor with me for good luck, so there is no need for you to get mad over a little flower."

Gorim returns her affectionate gaze with as much discretion as he can. "Oh no, my lady Aeducan. All I am is pleased for you. If anyone should be jealous, it ought to be your brothers. I don't remember such a turn out for Trian's first mission."

"That's because I'm kinder than Trian. And more endearing than Bhelen, too, I might add."

"And, dare I say, a tad bit vain?"

"Yes, that as well." She pauses for a moment. "Although perhaps I should take a step back. If Bhelen is right about Trian's ill will towards me, I can't afford to incite him any further. Trian may not be popular, but people still remember him as the heir they'd hoped he'd become. Then again, this is Bhelen we're talking about. He's probably just spouting nonsense for the sake of appearing like a good and dutiful brother. Even Trian is smart enough to know what a mistake it would be to kill me."

"It's true that no one would forgive him as soon as they would forgive you if you ever did such a thing, Lady Aeducan."

Arlindria pauses before the entrance to the Deep Roads to give one last wave to her admirers. Their gazes are warm, reverent even, but she can sense carefully buried malice hidden among them. She wonders for a moment if Trian is there before she remembers he has already advanced into the Deep Roads with Bhelen ahead of her.

Shrugging the matter off, she rallies the soldiers into the darkspawn infested caves. Her mission from her father is a simple one, one she could do with her hands tied behind her back and blindfolded if she so chose, but she is asked to take a small group of men with her in case of an emergency. Along with Gorim, she is given the assistance of a scout and Frandlin Ivo, an old friend of Bhelen's she has never been particularly fond of. For someone from such an inconsequential house, Ivo tended not to pay his proper respects to her, but lavished attention on Bhelen, as if this would somehow gain his family favor. Arlindria keeps her finger on the pulse of Orzammar politics enough to know that her younger brother has a small following among the younger and more radical dwarves, but not enough to warrant concern from Trian or herself.

Arlindria withdraws her sword and shield, the freshly embellished interlocked As glinting with her movements. Frandlin and the scout notice this, and they exchange a quick glance with each other when they think she is not looking.

"Do you like my new armor?" she asks idly, sparing more of her attention to her surroundings. She can smell the darkspawn corruption from every corridor, but another smell lingers in the air. Salty and foreign, like the dirt surfacers track in to the Stone or the flower in her hair. _Humans_. She remembers the Warden at her feast, the big burly man who had been so quick to compliment her, not only for her strength and beauty, for the sharpness of her mind and wits, which could maneuver the machinations of her fellow nobles and the every need of her traditional and complex people.

"It is fine armor, Lady Aeducan," Ivo says, "but it seems to me that Bhelen would have benefited from a new set more than you would. Didn't your father just give a perfectly acceptable breastplate for your birthday feast?"

"That was my mother's, and it was always understood I would inherit it when I was tall enough. This armor is solely to mark the occasion of my debut. Bhelen will receive one, too, when he leads his first expedition."

"And Lord Bhelen has the opportunity to use Lord Trian's armor, which Lady Aeducan does not," Gorim says, his voice somewhat sharper than usual. He was even more conditioned to recognize bitterness towards his lady than Arlindria herself was, a trait which she appreciated as both his lover and his mistress.

"There is no need to be coy on the subject, Lady Aeducan," Ivo continues, ignoring Gorim. "It is well known to all of Orzammar that you are His Majesty's favorite. It is only sensible. You are the most moderate of his children, and arguably the most pleasant."

"If you are referring to my politics, it's true that I am more balanced than my brothers. Trian would say I'm too radical and Bhelen would say I am not radical enough. But Trian's policies are too static, and they promote no progress of any kind for our kingdom. And Bhelen's ideas would alienate the stubborn and traditional folk, who make up the majority of our population. My only intention is to find a road that won't halt our future or send it spiraling into chaos."

"But there are whispers that Bhelen would provide Orzammar with better trade with the surface than it has ever enjoyed before."

"But at what expense? Our people are so suspicious of the surfacers that granting them too much too soon would amount to an insult to our ancestors. We must tread carefully with them, and with the casteless, too. Just because I am not as bull headed as my brother, doesn't mean I-"

Arlindria suddenly falls silent as they reach the inner chamber of the Aeducan Thaig. Her hands immediately seek Gorim's, and he accepts them without asking, knowing from her pinched expression that something is wrong.

"My lady?" he whispers. Her hands have gone cold. Her entire body, frozen and cold.

"No," she says, taking a trembling step forward. "It can't be."

As they approach closer, the rest of her group sees the tableau that has silenced her. At the center of the room is a small circle of bodies. Dwarven bodies.

Arlindria drops Gorim's hands and runs forward, dropping to her knees. All of the bodies are dressed in armor and are helmeted, but she knows from the crest and monograms who these men are. She pulls Trian's headgear away from his face and reveals his blank and vacant expression. He is staring up at her, but does not see her. She calls his name gently, but his ear is deaf to her forever.

"There is no corruption in his wounds," Gorim notes, kneeling beside his lady. "Could this be the work of darkspawn?"

"Trian would never fall to a darkspawn. He is too strong. This can only be the work of man."

"But who would...?"

Arlindria doesn't answer. She knows who would. Only one person would be so devious as to do this to her, to her family. Only one person would have a reason to slaughter the heir at such a perfect time when such an ideal candidate could be implicated. And all this time he had been plotting it, right under her nose, and she never had a clue. She who was supposed to know everything about Orzammar. She who had always believed she would be Queen.

She closes her eyes and rests her head against Trian's chest. "I am sorry, brother," she whispers. "For not being able to save you. Or myself. I am so sorry."

"My lady Aeducan..."

Arlindria's wailing cuts Gorim's words off. Her bitter screams echo off the cave walls, slamming against her ears and terrifying her with the force of her own agony. No one says a word. There is no other sound until Bhelen's footsteps enter the room, his finger pointing an accusation at her tear stained face.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up:**Dulcia has given up hope in herself and her future, but when an unexpected tragedy strikes her a family, a chance presents itself at a price she never thought she would have to pay


	7. Dulcia: Last of Her Line

**A/N:** Poor Dulcia has the worst of the origins to deal with. In fact, I can't wait until we can reach Denerim and Arl Howe so we can kick his stupid ass for slaughtering sweet little Oren and everyone else. Seriously, that man is sick. It was a challenge to get in the mindset of someone who has experienced that much loss all at once, but I hope I captured a little bit of it with this. Enjoy!

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**Seven. Dulcia: Last of Her Line.**

There is a legend within certain sects of the Chantry that the end of the world will come at the fall of dusk, when all eyes of the faithful will be shut and peacefully sleeping, tucked safely away in their beds. While they dream, the Maker will take their souls into His city, purifying its corruption with the holy light of faith. They will awake, renewed within their Life after Life, and the world as they once knew it will crumble away, all of its sin and death vanishing into nothingness. It will not be an end, but a beginning. A seamless transition from one way of life to another.

Dulcia first heard this story on the knee of the Revered Mother in Highever when she was a child of only seven. Around this time there had been a series of earthquakes in the farmlands, and she had overheard the tenants grumbling that if they were to lose their harvest, they may as well pray for the end of the world. These words inspired horrible visions in her mind. She imagined the world catching fire, bodies upon bodies keeling over without warning or reason, the darkspawn emerging quietly from the Deep Roads to slit their throats and claim this world as their own. The Revered Mother's assurances had soothed her at the time, but a part of her wondered how the loss of the world she loved so much could be as painless and simple as falling asleep.

Now, years later, she realizes her miserable visions were the ones that were correct. The end of the world is not a contented sigh, a shift from a state of lowness to one of perfection. It is fire and blood and rampant death with no meaning or purpose. It is man slaughtering man, children with a knives through their hearts, pale bodies drowning in pools of scarlet blood, the sight of beloved lives being extinguished right before your eyes with no time to mourn or cry because your own life is in danger and there is an enemy who was once an ally standing in front of you, waiting to carve his betrayal with cold steel into your chest.

"Dulcia! Quick!"

Her mother takes her hand and pulls her through the corridors of the castle towards the hidden exit through which they hope to escape. They have already searched through every room for civilian survivors other than themselves, but there are none left. The servants are dead. Oriana and Oren, too. Her old schoolmaster. The Revered Mother, who had once hoped for a peaceful exit. Lady Landra and Ionna. Dairren, who had shielded her with his body, taking the blow that should have been hers. Her father and Duncan are the only two still missing, and all she can do is pray that they have reached the exit themselves without injury or pain. She doesn't think she can stand the sight of another dying body, another sight to draw out the agony of the world ending right before her eyes.

"Rolf!" she calls out. His entire body is coated in blood, and he looks half demonic with his fierce golden eyes shining through the endless red. "Is the path clear up ahead? Do you smell any more of the traitors?"

He barks twice. No one stands in the way of their escape, but her father has not yet been found. "Do you think he's made it?" Dulcia asks her mother, her heart pounding in fear.

"I will accept no other answer," Eleanor says. "I have lost too much already tonight. If you or your father were to... no, no, I will not think of it."

The mother and daughter run through the kitchen and throw open the door to the larder. Bryce is sprawled on the floor, his hand pressed against his chest and stained with his own blood. Dulcia notes the position of his wound and blanches. It is too close to his heart. Dangerously close.

"Eleanor. My daughter." Bryce's voice is thin and fading, but he uses all of his strength to reach out to them and cradle their heads in his hands. "Don't let my last sight of you be of your tears."

"Father! Father!" Dulcia buries her face in his shoulder, at last succumbing to the tears she'd held back ever since she'd first seen Dairren's body crumple before her, the signs of her selfish lust for love still fresh on his skin. "What am I to do? W-what am I to do?"

"Dulcy, I didn't raise you to be a warrior so that you would falter at the first signs of loss. The way ahead of you is open. It would be a crime for you to ignore it for my sake. It would be an insult to everything I taught you."

"But without you, I-"

"Hush. You have a life ahead of you. You are strong and beautiful, and not even Fergus could give you a run for your money. Don't you waste a single second of it crying for a dead man, pup. You were born to make something of yourself."

Duncan steps into the room, his own sword unsheathed and soaked in blood. Bryce's eyes met his, and slowly he nods, more of his feeble breath escaping him. The Grey Warden advances and helps Dulcia to her feet, grasping securely onto her, even though her legs are threatening to collapse from underneath her.

"Take her to safety, Warden," Bryce whispers. "From this day forward, the Couslands are in your debt. I ignored her pleas to join your order because she is the thing most precious to me, and I hate for any danger to come near her, but now I realize what I must do. Dulcia, this is my parting gift to you. Use it well, and never again fear to follow the path you were made to follow."

Dulcia trembles in Duncan's arms as he helps her toward the escape route. "Father!" she screams, seeing him collapse against her mother through the veil of her tears. "Mother! Don't leave me all alone! I take back everything I've ever said about wanting to leave this place! I want to be with you! Come with me. Please... come with me."

"Be strong, Lady Cousland," Duncan whispers into her ear as they head into the darkness of the tunnels, Rolf dutifully leading the way. "They have given you this chance, and one day you will honor their sacrifice with your works in their name."

Dulcia says nothing. All her pain and brokenness accumulates together and focuses on the one outlet where she can release her fury full force without guilt or hesitance. His image burns in her mind. The curling sneer, the small and watery eyes, the simpering voice that dares suggest that he is a friend of her family and linked together with them through the stories of history. She had once desired fame and respect above and beyond all else, but now a new thought clears her old wishes away and inflames her with a purpose that will redeem her and bring her back to life.

_Arl __Howe_, she vows to herself, letting her tears fade into pure and righteous anger. _For __ending __my __world, __I __will __not __rest __until __you __see __the __end __of __yours._

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**Coming Up:**Quiet Alain has always adhered to the peaceful nature of his people, but a darker side manifests itself when his cousin is threatened by a human who underestimates his desire to protect the things he loves.


	8. Alain: Fall of the Silent Blade

**A/N**: I'm so excited because we get to return to my favorite origin story (although I think Alixire is possibly going to be my favorite character. At least for now). This section is quite the bloodbath, and I was always struck when I did the run through with Alain by how such a delicate looking guy could be responsible for a trail of blood that runs through pretty much every room in the Arl of Denerim's estate. So here's credit where credit is due, Alain. Knock em dead.

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**Eight. Alain: Fall of the Silent Blade.**

Soris is nervous. He's been announcing this fact since they left the Alienage, but even without the constant reminders, Alain would still recognize the signs in him. The shaky laughter, the constant chattering, the recitation of possible plans and outcomes, as if predicting the details can possibly change them. Soris keeps nothing inside, and even when he tries, his fears find a way to creep out through whatever holes and cracks exist in his heart. He, unlike Alain, is a vulnerable person, an innocent. He is someone who would quietly except his fate rather than fight against it and bring pain to those he loves the most.

Alain says nothing. He simply clutches onto the hilt of the blade given to him by the visiting Grey Warden's companion, a dark haired woman from Highever who was en route to Ostagar with the Warden before the drama in the Alienage interrupted them.

"This served me well during dire times," she had said to him, her eyes shining with a sad light, like a candle's wick sputtering. "May it now strike your own enemies without mercy."

She had seemed kind for a shem, and strangely remote for a woman. She wasn't among the village girls either begging him to rescue Shianni, or demanding that he keep his nose clean and out of trouble. She had given him the weapon because he had asked for one, but she had offered no further suggestion to him other than, "Do as you see fit."

It has been awhile since he has had a weapon like this in his hands. The last had been his mother's, not long before her death. A dagger with a crooked blade that was stained brown at the point. He had never asked her when she'd found it, and she had never told him, but it was always understood to be their secret, something neither Valendrian nor Cyrion could be told.

_Her hands unfolding over his on the hilt, calloused but smelling of perfume, like the soap she uses to wash the shem's clothes in the river. Long and thin and neatly kept, like his. Their hands are so much the same that it's hard to tell where one ends and another begins. "Hold it steady," she coaches. "Never let your enemy sense that you are afraid. During the battle, you must keep everything inside. Everything. Even showing your anger may show where you are weak. Always keep the purpose of your battle in mind, but never let the enemy see it or use it against you. Your blade will be the one to silence them. That is the only thing they need to know about you before they die."_

Soris pulls his own weapon out as they reach the doors. "How are we doing this again?" he asks, his voice nearly squeaking. Alain doesn't answer. He thinks of Shianni, of Nesiara, of Valora, of the bridesmaids. He had chosen himself over the each of them through his cruel prayer to the Maker, and now all he can do to redeem himself is to spare them by sacrificing himself. He deserves whatever punishment he earns for stepping into this den of humans. And the humans deserve the punishment of his blade for daring to condone the defilement of his people for the sake of their petty entertainment and the twisted needs of their weak flesh.

He opens the doors, and, as silently as the still breeze, steps through. For a moment, no one notices them. Then a guard looks up, sees their ears and daggers, and rises to his feet. "What business would an armed knife ear have here?" he asks, his voice cold and sarcastic. This is not a question he needs an answer to, given the laws about elves carrying weapons, so Alain doesn't bother to give him one. The fact that he has a sword in spite of the law can only mean that he intends to use it, preferably on this idiotic man's bare throat.

_She watches him as he twirls her dagger, thrusting it into the hearts of invisible enemies and slicing unseen necks. "I admire you," she says. "You're quiet and lethal, just like a warrior ought to be. The less you waste on an enemy, the more you have to spare for the people you truly care about. I always felt the need to announce to my targets who was killing them, but you leave them with nothing. You retain every piece of yourself, and let them die alone in their own darkness." She laughs distantly, as if to herself. "Whoever you fall in love with will be lucky. You'll have every little bit of yourself to give them. Except what you can spare for your father and I. And Shianni and Soris, of course."_

_"Father will chose who I marry," he says, stabbing the air. He is yet unconvinced by the idea of love, at least in regards to its existence for himself. He does not see anything desirable or familiar in the men and women together in Alienage, the women doting and sweet like cloying summer berries, and their men indulgent and tender as if they are under a strange, unmanning spell. There is nothing real to it, nothing like the blood on the dagger or the smells of foreign cities on the travelers coming through. It lacks excitement. It is just typical life, repeated in an endless cycle of sameness._

_"I said who you fall in love with, not who you marry," she corrects. She watches him a few moments more, the smile growing on her face. "I really do admire it. You should only use your voice to speak to people who deserve to hear it. Don't say a word, otherwise. When you kill them, be as silent as the grave you are sending them to."_

Vaughan is standing in his chambers, a crumpled Shianni at his feet. Like Soris, he is nervous. He can smell the blood. He can see it on their clothes, smeared over their weapons. Already he is falling on his knees, ready to beg and plead, as if his miserable life is something worth bargaining for. Alain uses his foot to push the noble onto his back, pinning him like the animal he is. His sword hovers over Vaughan's heart, ready to relieve him of the organ that he clearly has no need for or access to.

"L-let's not be hasty," Vaughan sputters, desperately looking into Alain's eyes for mercy. "We can talk about this. I am sure I can offer you gold... anything from the estate you want! And no one has touched your bride, so I can return her to you... u-unsoiled."

Alain doesn't say a word. He gives the arl's son a moment to see the answer in his eyes before plunging the sword into his chest, letting him, as his mother had once said, die alone within his own darkness.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It doesn't take long for the guards to find him. In the brief time it takes to follow the trail of blood, they easily discover him standing in the Alienage, his wedding clothes still covered in the last of Vaughan's life. Alain doesn't hesitate in taking the blame. He has prepared for this, embraced it even. Imprisonment and execution are hardly worse things to endure than the knowledge that Shianni could have been killed because of him, and he is more content to accept this punishment than he was to receive the wife at the altar whom he had neither asked for nor brought upon himself. At least this ending he had consented to of his own free will.

"Just a moment," the shem Warden says as the guards fetch rope to bind Alain's arms. "You are aware of the forces we are amassing at Ostagar under the king's orders, correct?"

"Of course. Many of the good men of Denerim have marched for the Wilds this season to face the threat of the darkspawn."

"Then you must know that we are in desperate need of able bodied and particularly talented men and women among the order of the Grey Wardens to extinguish the threat before it can grow. This woman beside me is one I have personally recruited for this purpose, and it is my wish for this man to accompany us to Ostagar as well."

"The knife ear? No way. The only place he's accompanying anyone to is the scaffolds, as I'm sure the Arl of Denerim will order as soon as word reaches him."

"This man has killed more people today in one hour than all of those good men marching from Denerim will probably kill in their lifetimes, and none of it was without cause," the Warden recruit says with a cold glare. "You should spend your energies hunting the Arl of Amaranthine who slaughtered innocents in the night, rather than a mere vigilante who relieved us of a few rapists in the city. And even if you won't release him to us, we'll be taking him regardless."

"To put Lady Cousland's words more kindly, we're conscripting this young man whether the Arl of Denerim objects or not," the Warden informs the guard. He turns to Alain and Valendrian, his face suddenly very solemn and formal. "Alain Tabris, you are hereby a recruit of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and will leave for the battlefield of Ostagar forthwith. It is good to have you with us."

"You... have my thanks," Alain says quietly, inclining his head to the two shem. At the start of this trying day, he would never have imagined that instead of bringing the unwelcome Nesiara into his home as his bride, he would be leaving his home forever at the side of a bear-like human man and a noblewoman who is almost as ferocious of a warrior as mother was. He smiles to himself. Fate has taken him down a strange path, but he thinks he is ready.

Without another a word, Alain shakes off the ropes of his captors and steps forward to join the Warden and Lady Cousland, handing himself over to the unknown and unexplored life that awaits him in the far reaches of the world outside the Alienage gates.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up:**A thwarted escape and a bitter dual betrayal culminates in an opportunity for Alixire to at last make her flight, but is the taste of freedom worth the possibility of abandoning the thing she would most hate to lose?


	9. Alixire: Taking Wing

**A/N:** Amell time! I am sad to reach this point because it means I'll need to take a break from Cullen for a while, but as always, it is a pleasure to write about everyone's favorite Circle Mage. A lot of chaotic things happen at the conclusion of this origin, so I hope I didn't miss anything important! Once again, thanks for all the support (especially for Dulcia, she seems to be a fan favorite based on the number of people reading her sections) and I hope you continue to enjoy!

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**Nine. Alixire: Taking Wing.**

_"How could you?"_

The words resound in Alixire's ears the moment Jowan says them in his cold and wounded voice which reflects how shocked he is that she of all people was responsible for the presence of the First Enchanter and Knight Commander at the tail end of their escape. She knows she is supposed to feel something at his disappointment in her, something like a pang of guilt at his accusatory words, a bittersweet nostalgia for the day she first met him when they were both young apprentices and first became friends. She should hate herself for what she did to him, or at least admit to a sense of shame that she betrayed him, her dearest friend, for the sake of an establishment that means nothing to her. But all she can feel in her heart is numbness. The only memory of Jowan that she can think of out of all their years of friendship is the one she just witnessed. The terrible confirmation of all her fears and suspicions of him marked by the sight of blood spurting from his chest and turning against his accusers, throwing them with a demonic force helplessly onto their backs.

"How could I?" she echoes, her entire body shaking in anger. "How could _you_? We made a promise to each other, remember? Did you really think I would possibly let you escape when all this time you've been hiding what you really are, and doing these unforgivable things to yourself? Don't you understand what blood magic is? Don't you know that it's the reason the Chantry has made the entire world fear and hate us? Does the fact that you're bringing pain and suffering down upon all of us not mean anything to you?"

Jowan's face pales, and he takes two steps back from her, accidentally brushing into Lily. The initiate screams and jumps away from him, staring with wild eyes at the vivid red stain on the front of his robes. "You tricked me!" she screams, covering her face in horror. "Get away from me, you monster!"

"Lily!" He tries to take her hand, but she flees from his touch, seeking sanctuary in the fallen body of the Knight-Commander. Even the imprisonment that awaits her when he awakens is less terrifying to her than the newfound thought of what Jowan is capable of, what sick and twisted powers now lie in his wounded body.

"Alixire," he tries again, his voice increasing in desperation. "You know I'm not like you. I'm not strong or powerful, and there's no way I would have ever been able to pass my Harrowing. I needed to find a way to become a real mage. I needed a way to protect Lily!"

"And you think this is protecting her? Just look at her face! That's the look of fear that all of us must suffer because of people like you."

"I... Alixire, I-"

Jowan is cut off by the sound of thundering footsteps heading in their direction. His eyes widen and turn toward the thick Tower doors, the only things standing in the way of his freedom. With one last pained expression directed first at Alixire and then at Lily, he dashes away from the Tower, the deep red drops of his blood marking the path of his flight. There are no other words between them. All of their years of playful camaraderie have ended with this.

Alixire sinks to her knees just as the band of Templars headed by the Grey Warden and Cullen bursts into the room. The men survey the scene with confusion, staring at the weeping Lily crouching over the bodies of the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander, and then upon the newly blood spattered walls. As the Templars help the two older men to their feet, Duncan stops by to assist Alixire, offering her an arm to help her find her balance. When she lifts her gaze, she finds Cullen staring at her, his eyes fervently searching hers for the answers to what had happened and what would become of her now that she is in the midst of this grisly incident. But she has nothing to give him to soothe his fears. She has no inclination of what to do now that she has witnessed such atrocities from someone she had always thought of as her friend, someone whose fate is linked too closely with hers in the minds of everyone in the Tower.

"Irminric, Rylock, we have an escaped blood mage on our hands," Greagoir barks once he has regained his bearings. "Gather your troops and go after him while you still can. This one doesn't have a phylactery, so be vigilant. Carroll, take the initiate Lily and keep her in seclusion until we can arrange for her transportation to the Aeonar." His eyes fall on Alixire, narrowing slightly. "For that matter, take Miss Amell along with her. Both will need to submit to questioning before they are imprisoned."

"Greagoir, I believe I told you that Alixire warned me about this plan and participated in it under my orders," Irving says, stepping in front of Templar Carroll. "If you desire to punish her, you may as well have me join them. I was equally aware of the situation as she was."

"Irving, do not pretend to ignore the fact that Miss Amell has been under suspicion for some time now, and has been marked as a potential escape risk by our order. How am I to know she wasn't brewing her own plan to escape during the confusion?"

"If I had, I would have run off with Jowan, wouldn't I?" Alixire snaps. "I wouldn't have just stood here like a lamb waiting for slaughter."

"And your concerns for Alixire are unfounded," Irving says, scowling at Greagoir. "She has been my apprentice over these past few years, and I have always found her perfectly committed to the study of magic. She would make a fine candidate for First Enchanter one day when she has reached the height of her powers, and there is no reason why she should be forbidden to foster her talent."

Greagoir snorts disdainfully. "You would consider the friend of a blood mage for such a role? Irving, you cannot be serious. Prison is the only place that one is suited for, and I won't hear otherwise."

"I'm afraid you will," Duncan interjects, stepping forward. "I came to the Tower with the intention of requesting more assistance from your magi at Ostagar, but I have a counter offer in mind. I have also been looking into recruiting new members into our order, and already have two able candidates who are lodging at the Spoiled Princess as we speak. Miss Amell would be an excellent addition to our ranks, and by your leave, First Enchanter, I would like to avoid her imprisonment by taking her to Ostagar with the other two."

"No!" Cullen cries from the back of the room. All eyes turn to him, including Alixire's. "I... I m-mean, it's dangerous!" he stammers, avoiding her gaze. "M-mages shouldn't be without supervision."

"I can provide that well enough on my own, I think," Duncan says wryly. "First Enchanter?"

"I see nothing wrong with it, as long as you continue to see that she is properly trained. A talent such as hers should not go to waste."

"Agreed. I shall take her the docks to meet the others right away so she will no longer be an offensive presence to you, Knight-Commander. Alixire, if you will?"

Alixire freezes. There's no question that she wants to leave. Now, more than ever, there really is no other choice. Greagoir has decided on the Aeonar for her, and even if she refuses Duncan's offer, she will still be made to leave the Tower, presumably never to return. And this opportunity with the Grey Wardens is the freedom she has been longing for all her life, the freedom to practice her power without the hateful stares and constant rumors of her loyalties. But all the same, she can feel Cullen's gaze on her, a reminder of her promise to stay by his side. She had lashed out at Jowan for breaking a promise, but now it seems as if she will also be breaking hers.

"May I have a moment to retrieve my things from my room?" she says finally. "I won't be long."

"Of course you may," Duncan kindly replies. "I'll wait for you here, and you may find me when you're ready."

"Cullen, go with her," Greagoir orders, still looking annoyed. "I don't want any funny business from her before she leaves."

"Y-yes sir." With a trembling hand, he takes hold of her arm and marches her up to her chambers, his steps slow and somber as if he is escorting her to her execution.

"So," he says in a strangely unemotional voice. "That was your ethical dilemma."

"Yes." She rifles through her belongings and jams things into her pack. "But that wasn't the resolution I had intended. Your Knight-Commander did me no favors by not agreeing to Irving's terms."

"That's it, then. You're leaving."

"Well, there's always the Aeonar. Although I'm afraid I don't do well in small spaces."

"This isn't something you should joke about." Cullen slams his fist into the wall, his chest heaving in anger. "You swore to me this wouldn't happen."

"I know I did. And as I said, I didn't intend for it to. But there's nothing I can do about it now. And at least if I'm released into Ferelden there's a chance we'll be able to see each other again. There's always that to hope for, right?"

"If you leave, you aren't coming back."

"Says who?"

"You've always wanted this freedom! If you get a taste of it, there's no chance you'd ever choose this life again. There's no need to pretend otherwise for my sake. This is who you are, and I've always been... I've always been just a whim for you!"

"Cullen." Alixire sets aside her things and places her hands on his shoulders. "From the beginning, I never held anything back from you. I said I would forgive you anything, even though I knew you couldn't do the same for me. But please. Forgive me this. I'm begging you. If you love me at all, don't give up on me now."

She leans in to kiss him, but he back away from her nervously. "What are you doing?" he asks, blushing with the virgin innocence of a child.

"Don't deny me this anymore. We don't know when we'll see each other again, and I don't want to say goodbye without sharing this with you."

When he instinctively backs away again, she pulls him against her aggressively and presses her lips against his. With a strangled sigh, he gives into her embrace completely, for the first time setting aside the rigid Templar in his head to indulge in a selfish moment that had nothing to do with the Maker or the Chantry or anyone else other than himself.

Alixire pulls away slowly, running a gentle hand across his cheek. "Duncan's waiting for me," she whispers, her heart torn between excitement for her new adventure and agony over what she is leaving behind. "And so should you. I'll find you again, I swear it. I'll make you believe in me even if takes my entire life to do it."

With one last lingering touch, she draws away and gathers up her things, turning her back on the man she loves with no idea of how many years it would be until she could feel him underneath her hands once again.

0o0o0o0o0

**Coming Up:**Hannon isn't too thrilled to learn he's on the verge of death and is being forced to enter into the world of humans in order to find a cure to save his life. Will Duncan be able to sway this Dalish's opinion with a little incentive? Look forward to a special guest appearance from Alixire Amell!


	10. Hannon: A Cure for the Taint

**A/N:** Onto the second half of Hannon's adventure! After all the doom and gloom in the previous sections, I tried to make this one a little more lighthearted. I see Hannon as having a wry, trickster type personality. He almost has to, given the fact that he will later have to tolerate a rather prickly love interest who needs to be balanced out by someone a little less unfeeling. Anyhow, apologies for the lack of the return to the caves part, but since I'm the writer I get to change canon when I feel like it. Enjoy!

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**Ten. Hannon: A Cure for the Taint**

When Hannon wakes up, Keeper Marethari is hovering over him, muttering Dalish prayers of strength underneath her breath. _Melava __inan __enansal __ir __su __araval __tu __elvaral..._ his thoughts trail off and lose focus, and his eyes close as if she is lulling him to sleep with the melody of her words. He does not remember why he is here or why there is now a strange feeling inside him, a feeling of unwelcome change, a shifting in his inner core. The only thing that touches him is the soothing voice easing his pains and fears back to someplace distant. _Your __journey __is __long, __and __you __are __struggling __alone, __but __one __day __your __true path __will __emerge_.

"He woke there for a moment," a voice says. It does not belong to the Keeper or anyone in the Dalish tribe that Hannon can remember. It is a playful voice, harmonious like a songbird chirping in the forest, carefree like rabbits bounding after one another up and over the roots of the trees. The hand that belongs to the woman with the foreign voice reaches out and presses against his forehead, and he can feel something other than blood coursing underneath her soft skin, a force like the one he feels coming from nature woven into her veins.

He opens his eyes again. Standing beside the Keeper is a dark skinned human dressed in gleaming silver armor, and at his bedside sits the girl with the powerful hands, an auburn haired young woman swathed in robes that nearly cover the entirety of her body.

"Andaran atish'an, Hannon," the Keeper says, a wan smile appearing on her face. "We thought we'd lost you. You've been feverish for two days now."

"Ma serannas, Keeper." Hannon takes a moment to rub the film from his eyes before he determines that the two humans are really there beside him. "But can you tell me why there are shemlen staring at me right now?"

The Keeper's smile vanishes. "Insolent boy! Your words of thanks should be directed at them, the ones who saved your life. If not for our guests, you would have died in the forest, and no one but the wolves would have ever found your bones."

"You must pardon him, Marethari," the human man says. "He was unconscious when I found him, so I do not think he is aware he was rescued." He turns to Hannon and bows respectfully. "I am Duncan, leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. My companions and I were passing through the area when I sensed darkspawn taint in the forest. When I went to investigate, I found you lying in the cave."

"Grey Wardens?" he echoes, drawing a blank. He thinks he has heard that name somewhere, in some legend of a Dalish hero he was told as a child.

"The Blight Quellers," the Keeper clarifies. "The taint of the darkspawn is probably what made you ill. It is unlike any illness I have seen before, but this mage says she has read of it in the books of her people."

"So you are a mage," Hannon says, glancing back at the young woman at his side. "I thought I could sense the elements within you."

"She has been tending to you ever since you came here, only taking short breaks to eat with her companions and rest. You should be thankful for her sacrifice, lethallin."

"Of course. Ma serannas, stranger. It is a strange thing for one of your kind to be so merciful to one of the elvhenan."

The girl lifts and eyebrow. "We do it all the time in the Circle Tower where I come from. The elves are our brethren."

"Hmm," Hannon says, doubtfully. He turns back towards the Keeper. "So I take it you were occupied healing Tamlen, then. How is he?"

Marethari's eyes darken. "We cannot find him. Duncan says that the taint in the Eluvian- the mirror you found- was so strong that if he touched it directly, he is surely dead by now. Dead, or beyond our help." She bows her head. "As for you, neither the mage nor I can heal you completely. Duncan is here in the camp to discuss the matter of your cure."

"Which will need to be done in private," the Warden says, his voice solemn. "Alixire, if you would continue to watch him while we speak, I would be most grateful."

"Of course," Alixire says. Her fingers curl around her staff and it glows briefly with a blue light. "I will keep him strong until a decision is reached."

When the Keeper and Grey Warden have left them, Hannon sinks back into his bedroll and sighs. "So Tamlen is dead then. My warnings went unheeded."

"It is a tragic thing," Alixire agrees. "We were fortunate to save you."

"Why do you say that? You do not know me well enough to rejoice in the fact that I am alive."

"I suppose that is true. But so much misfortune is happening in this world that the avoidance of a needless death is a victory I am content with."

"Why you are with that Grey Warden? You look too young to be that old man's wife."

"Wife? Ha! Not at all. I am a recruit for his order. I am traveling with two others as well."

"You are going to be a Blight Queller?"

"It was better than the alternative." She rests her hand for a moment against his. "So you can really feel the elements within me? Is that a frightening thing?"

"Why should it be? Magic is power. You are lucky to have it and study it."

"I know your people are able to practice magic away from the Chantry. Perhaps that's why you do not fear it."

"Only a fool would fear the thing that makes him stronger." After a moment, he bites his lips, remembering the mirror, the Eluvian. "Then again, I guess only a fool would be needlessly assured in front of a force he does not understand. But I understand your magic, shemlen. I envy you for it."

Alixire blinks in surprise, and then slowly smiles. "Strange," she says. "It is strange to hear someone say such a thing, but I am glad of it."

"No," Hannon protests, holding back his own grin. "What is strange is that you are glad to hear anything from the mouth of an elf."

0o0o0o0o0o0

An hour later, the Keeper and Duncan emerge from her tent. "Well, lethallin," Marethari says with a pained frown, "it seems as if you will die if you stay here."

"What?" Hannon bolts upright, every muscle in his body tense with anger. "Is this some kind of a joke? If I am to die, why was I even spared?"

"Silence, Mahariel, and wait for me to finish speaking. I said you would die if you stayed in the camp. That is why you must leave it."

"The Grey Warden joining ritual contains an element that neutralizes the darkspawn taint," Duncan says cautiously. "I cannot explain it further, especially since Alixire is present, but it will save your life. However, to accept it means you must also accept the idea of becoming a Grey Warden. Otherwise, the magical means Alixire has been using on you will only keep you alive for a year at most."

"A tempting offer, but I think I would rather die than live in the human world," Hannon says, folding his arms across his chest. "Just listening to them speak makes me want to stick an arrow into my own heart." He glances at Alixire and smiles guiltily. "With exceptions, of course. The mages seem half alright."

"Such a stupid boy," Marethari grumbles. "I told Duncan you would say that, but I was hoping for better from you. For someone who likes killing things so much, you would think you would be glad for the chance to slaughter the darkspawn."

"Yes, but then the darkspawn will run out and I will be stuck living with humans for the rest of my life."

"Darkspawn don't run out, as you suggest," Duncan says, looking bemused. "Even if we defeat the horde in the Kocari Wilds, there will be plenty for you to take care of in the Deep Roads."

Hannon pauses. "Did you say Kocari Wilds? The forest to the south of this camp?"

"Yes. The horde has been amassing there, and we intend to draw them out to Ostagar to fight them."

"Do you hear that, Keeper? Aren't the Wilds where Asha'belannar and her daughters live?"

The Keeper notes the glimmer in Hannon's eyes and smiles. "So the legends go, lethallin."

"And it is said that the Witches have magic even we know not. An ancient magic that has been passed down through the generations and holds the secret to such a wondrous power that even our most complex spells are insignificant beside it."

"Asha'belannar?" Alixire asks. "I don't remember reading about her in the Tower."

"You wouldn't have. She is the Woman of Many Years. I don't know what name your people have for her, but she is the strongest sorceress that ever lived. I do not think your Chantry would approve of mages learning of the kind of power she has." Hannon picks up his bows and comes to his feet. "It seems I will have to join you after all, shemlen. I will help you kill your darkspawn, and then I will comb every inch of that forest for Asha'belannar."

"And that's that?" Alixire struggles to hold back her laughter. "That was a quick change of heart. The rest of us were in turmoil after we were recruited, but you seem to be all sunshine and smiles."

"Well, if I am to achieve my life's purpose, why wouldn't I be?" Hannon hooks his bow over his shoulder. "What do we do now?"

"We head for Ostagar," Duncan says, clearly humored by the whole exchange. "Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Hannon Mahariel."

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up:**Britomart has sworn to give her family honor, but her future looks bleak from behind the bars of Beraht's prison. Deciding to take her fate into her own hands, she puts her life on the line to defeat her greatest enemy and earn her way to a life beyond the confines of her caste.


	11. Britomart: Rise From the Dust

**A/N:**And now we move along to the section where Britomart tries to beat Alain's record of most people slaughtered in a single rampage. I'm not quite sure if she pulls ahead of him, but she certainly does her best. Unfortunately for Britomart, her issues with the carta will come back to bite us later, but that's a whole other chapter down the road. For now, enjoy!

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**Eleven. Britomart: Rise From the Dust**

"By the stone," Leske says, taking a moment to catch his breath. "You're sodding crazy, duster. No, scratch that. You're sodding _insane_!"

Britomart casually wipes her blade on the shirt of her latest victim, admiring the brilliant red smear against the white fabric. "Can I take that as a compliment?" she asks, rising to her feet. "Or are you just mocking me again?"

"You bet you can take it as a compliment. It's not every day I get to see someone wipe out a third of the carta in one go. All I'm wondering is how long you can keep this up. I'd bet my father's beard that we're going to run into Jarvia or Beraht on our way out of here."

"More the worse for them. I could keep this going for hours." She tosses half the coin she's gathered from the batch of corpses to Leske, pocketing the rest to pass on to Rica later. "It's not like I have another choice."

"We could go back to rotting in prison."

"While we do that, he'll kill Rica or else demote her to a low level prostitute. And we can't have that, can we?"

"The first one, no. The second one, yes. At least then I'd finally be able to get a crack at her."

Britomart points her dagger at his throat. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you wanted to die, too."

"Just kidding."

The two dwarves creep further through the carta tunnels, killing guards and fellow thugs along the way. Britomart is unfamiliar with this place, having never been invited into the carta's inner circle by Beraht, but she knows the most direct route back into Orzammar proper is through his shop. Judging by their position within the stone in relation to the map of the Orzammar she has careful maintained in her head over her years of creeping through it like a thief, they should be only two caverns away from freedom. Not that what awaits them outside is freedom, exactly. Britomart is smart enough to know that as soon as she sets foot in the Commons, the guards will recognize her and have her locked up again for her initial crime of insulting the ancestors through her sham of a Proving. But before she is imprisoned, she wants only to finish Beraht with her own hands before Rica and her mother are endangered by him. Though she can do nothing to raise their caste or better their lives, she can at least do this for their sake as a final act of kindness.

"Hey, duster, can you hear anything?" Leske whispers as they near the cavern where the secret door should be. "If we're going to run into Beraht, this would be the place."

Britomart rolls her eyes. "Well then, shut up and listen. If that's his voice up ahead, this may be my chance."

Leske and Britomart hide in the shadows around the entrance to the cavern and peer inside. Beraht is standing beside two of his soldiers, and by the undoubtedly annoyed looks on their faces, Britomart can tell they've just been discussing the issue of the failed bet for her Proving, the one that, while giving her a sense of personal satisfaction, had ended with her stint in the carta prison.

"That sodding Brosca bitch lost me more money than she's ever seen in her life," Beraht grumbles. "I'm going to have to shake down every black market trader I've ever financed to make up the coin."

"At least we won placing bets on the Aeducan girl, right?" one of the soldiers says, failing to sound appropriately optimistic.

"Everyone placed bets on her, you idiot. That was a simple courtesy to the Aeducans. We barely earned a handful gold off her, and now that she's exiled, the Proving Master is probably going to call that Proving void, too." Beraht slams his fist against his palm. "Sod it all. I should have made that girl a prostitute when she came hunting for money, but Jarvia advised me against it. She should've known that it's the only thing a girl like that is really good for."

"But everyone knows that she's a... you know."

"And that would have worked to her benefit. Every man loves a chance to straighten a freak like her out." The soldiers laugh and agree to this statement while Britomart, still hiding in the shadows, pulls out her daggers. "But it's too late for her now. While she spends the last of her days in prison, I'll sell off her sister to pay for her debts. At least Rica is popular enough that she'll earn me some quick coin with that sweet, sweet body of hers."

"Are you talking about the one you've been dressing up fancy lately?" a soldier asks, licking his lips. "I'll be first in line for some of that. She's quite a looker."

"Sure is. And let me tell you, she tastes as good as she looks."

"But unfortunately for you, I've come to relieve you of your proper parts, so I'm afraid my sister will have to be disappointed," Britomart snarls, stepping into the cavern. "You're going to die begging for mercy from the freak who nug nuts like you wouldn't be able to straighten out even if you tried your entire life."

Beraht turns around to face her. "I thought I locked you rats up in prison. Did you get tired of waiting for death and try to come find it yourself?"

"The only death I've come to find is yours. I don't care about what happens to me, but I'm not going to let you lay a hand on my sister."

"And you're really going to stop me, huh? I own your sister. As a matter of fact, I own you. If not for me, you would still be starving on the streets and getting beaten by your drunk mother. But what do I get in gratitude? Two sisters who can't do anything right and drain me of more gold than they bring in. If you want to try me, so be it. It's one less mouth your family will have to worry about feeding, and you'll be doing the rest of us a favor."

"So be it, then." Britomart twirls her daggers in her hands and wields them at the ready. "You go ahead and take care of the guards, Leske. But leave Beraht. Beraht is mine."

0o0o0o0o0o0

"What did I say? Sodding insane!"

Britomart pulls the blade out of Beraht's chest and watches with cold detachment as blood gurgles from his throat and his eyes roll to the back of his head. She has dreamed of doing this ever since she joined the carta five years ago, but the reality of it is less satisfying than she expected. She'd imagined his death would mean that she would be free, unencumbered by the life of shame and servitude that she had suffered under him and the other dwarves who had been born to a better lot than she had. She had always planned to finish him off the moment her family had risen in caste so that he wouldn't touch a penny of their wealth, and then she had hoped to take the carta for herself and run it with a more even hand than Beraht did. But now all she can content herself with is the fact that she saved Rica as best she could. She'd reached the height of her glory in the Proving for Duncan, and now there is nothing left for her to do but sink back into the dust from which she came.

"Hey, Britomart. Do you think you can tell Rica I was the one who killed Beraht? It's not like you have anything to gain from it, right?"

"Go choke on something and die. Do I look like I'm in the mood for this conversation?" Tossing both her blades on the ground, she throws open the secret door and steps into Beraht's shop. "If I'm going to be locked up, might as well get it over with. The sooner I'm dead, the sooner I can get out of this miserable excuse for a life."

She steps out into the Commons, dripping with blood of Orzammar's greatest crime lord. Every eye turns in her direction, shock and appalled by the sight of her scarlet stained body, and it isn't long before the nearest guard scrambles to apprehend her. Britomart notices that Rica and the Grey Warden from her Proving are standing behind him, also staring at her with a degree of awe mingled with pride.

"Rica, I killed Beraht for you!" she calls out, not caring who hears her. "I'm going to have to go back to prison now, so take care of mother and stop tramping around like you're a piece of meat. If you want money, sell all my weapons when I'm gone."

"You killed Beraht?" the guard murmurs, his tone horrified but not without a note of respect. "He had many enemies, but he had even more powerful allies. Brand, I hope you realize-"

"Yeah, yeah. If you want to lock me up, go ahead and do it. No one's stopping you."

"Yes, someone is," Rica interjects, stepping in between her sister and the guard. "You may be reckless and half-crazy, but you're still my sister. And I'm not about to let you go to prison for something I myself would have done in a heartbeat had I had the opportunity to. That's why I brought this Grey Warden to see you."

"Stone met, Miss Brosca," the Warden says, stepping forward. "I had the honor of witnessing your Proving the other day. I came to Orzammar with the intention of gauging the situation in the Deep Roads before initiating our own campaign at Ostagar, but I also wanted to see the best your legendary warriors had to offer. I meant to question both yourself and Lady Aeducan about your interest in joining our order, but both of you ended up in prison before I could speak to you, I'm afraid. But now that you're here, I can properly have your attention. Will you take this opportunity to join the Grey Wardens and fight against the darkspawn horde on the surface?"

"Warden, consider what you are doing," the guard objects, looking mystified. "This girl is casteless. The only thing she's good for is sweeping the streets and getting drunk on cheap ale."

"Her performance at the Proving and defeat of your crime lord would suggest otherwise," Duncan says mildly. "Miss Brosca?"

"It's Britomart," she corrects, bowing to the Warden. "And is it true that there may be a Blight on the surface?"

"It's not maybe anymore. There is one."

"Fine then." She turns to look Rica in the eye, once again bound and determined to prove herself in her eyes. "I swore to my sister that I would find honor for my family. I cannot think of a way more honorable than this. I will go with you."

"I'm glad to hear of it. I would normally be in haste to remove you from this place to prevent further antagonism, but I wish to view the Deep Roads and possibly weed out Lady Aeducan before I go. You may join me, if you like."

"Very well."

"Then I suggest we move along and get you cleaned up before more of the guards come and take you away. I trust you know where the entrance to your Deep Roads is?"

Britomart nods, but before she leaves she reaches out for a moment to press her hand against her sister's.

"Atrast tunsha, Rica," she says. "When you see me next I promise to you that I will no longer be a person for you to be ashamed of."

"Atrast tunsha, sister. But you already are that person. What you truly need to do is become that person to yourself."

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up:**Her shame at the hands of Bhelen leaves Arlindria unopposed to the idea of execution, but a kind suggestion from Gorim and Lord Harrowmont gives her the strength to try again on a new path in life.


	12. Arlindria: Rebuilding

**A/N:**I'm final-ly all finished up with finals and am back home for Winter break! Christmas is going to be a bit hectic, but I'll try to keep up my writing as best as I can. Right now, we end the origin section with Arlindria, who unfortunately is on the verge of hearing some very beautiful lies of fidelity from a certain somebody. The chapters following this section will bounce from Warden to Warden as the story progresses, but there will no longer be a particular order to the narratives. So stayed tuned to the Coming up section at the bottom of the chapter to learn more about who will be featured next. Enjoy!

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**Twelve. Arlindria: Rebuilding.**

Arlindria holds the surface flower from the day of her first and only campaign carefully in her hands. She does not know much about plants, but even she is aware that this one has died. The once pink petals are now dried and brown, and the sweet smell that once came from it has become reminiscent of dust. If she presses it too hard on the flower, perhaps it will crumble and fade into the stone. Just as she soon will when the word of her execution arrives to her lonely cell. Like the flower, her time to thrive and bloom has been short lived.

As she twirls the flower back and forth by its brown and stiff stem, she hears someone entering the room. She does not look up, but continues gazing apathetically at her flower, knowing that whoever has come for her will lead her to her death. She is not afraid to die, and has never been. Death is simply a return to the stone from which she was made, and within the stone she will be preserved in a loving embrace and be honored as an ancestor. Not that anyone will honor her, given what she has supposedly done. Bhelen and his descendants will make sure everyone spits on her name and calls her a kinslayer for her crimes against Trian. Trian, at least, will still be venerated. Bhelen has made him into an innocent victim with his scheme, forcing himself to make the remaining Aeducans think of him as a martyr of his sister's greed. But Arlindria is happy for Trian. Though he had never been favored in life, he at least has the honor of being respected in death, which is more than she can hope for herself.

"My lady Aeducan?"

She closes her eyes. She would know Gorim's voice from anyone's even if she cannot see him. His face is a forbidden sight to her now. To look at it would mean she would have to admit to the fact that in destroying herself, she has destroyed him as well. She had once bound him to the same fate as her, and though she had meant for him to share in her happiness, she has only given him her shame and humiliation as a burden he will now carry with him forever.

"It's time, my lady," he says. She feels his hands reaching out to touch her shoulders, and she suddenly feels weak and powerless. She had once taken so much pride in her strength, intelligence, and wit, but none of these have saved her from Bhelen, and none of them will defend her where she is going. A handful of darkspawn is nothing to her, but a whole swarm of them will easily exhaust whatever will to survive she has. And she has very little now. She has failed in everything she meant to do with her life, and what good luck and fortune she once had in her life as a princess has run dry now that she is in exile.

"Please look at me. I have some hopeful news." Gorim presses his thumbs against her eye lids and eases them open. "I heard one of your brother's concubines talking in the streets about how her sister has become a recruit of the Grey Warden, Duncan, and that the two of them are in the Deep Roads as we speak. She even mentioned that they are looking for you."

"Me?" Arlindria asks, shaking her head in bewilderment. "What would a Grey Warden and some distant connection of Bhelen's want with me? I'm sure they've already heard about what happened to Trian."

"I've heard their order doesn't care about things like that. Who cares what your past is as long as you commit your future to killing the darkspawn? But Duncan will remember from your feast what kind of person you are, and he knows all about your victory at your own Proving. If you ask me, I bet he wants to recruit you along with the duster. He'd be a sodding fool not to want someone like you."

"I disagree. He'd be a sodding fool to want the kind of baggage I bring. I'm no warrior. I'm nothing but a failure."

"My lady, it wounds me to hear that from you. You and I both know that you are capable of greatness beyond what Bhelen has ever dreamed of. Joining the Grey Wardens would be your chance to prove that to him and to all of Orzammar." He takes the dead flower from her hands and sets it aside. "They're exiling me to the surface, but I know I can find work in Denerim. If you join the Wardens, I'll wait for you there. I swear I'll support you as you rebuild yourself. Even if you give up on yourself, I won't give up on you."

"Do you think that will really happen? That I can redeem myself?"

Gorim smiles at her, squeezing her hand. "Of course. One day they'll have a statue of you in Orzammar, and you'll be the Aeducan everyone will remember and love once again. Bhelen will go to his death haunted by the fact that he could never win against you in the end. So go find Lord Harrowmont, all right? He's waiting for you at the Deep Roads, and he's still faithfully on your side. I know that he will redeem you in your father's and follower's eyes and make sure your brother's treachery is known throughout the Assembly. So go on, my lady. I'll be waiting for you on the other side."

0o0o0o0o0o0

_"It is a silly notion," her father says to her, balancing her small and scrappy body on his knee, "that leaders are born rather than made. Do you know what kind of child I was, pet? Do you know what your foolish father was like once? I wasn't born as smart as I've become, let me tell you. My brother was supposed to be heir, so all I bothered with was killing darkspawn and deep stalkers in my spare time. I barely even knew how to read when my brother unexpectedly died and I became the new favorite for the throne."_

_"So what did you do, father?" she asks. Arlindria considers her father's every word to be gold, a treasure that is priceless to her future. In all things, she wants to be as he is, to live as he has lived. She sees how much he is honored and loved, and wants her people to look upon her one day in the same manner they look upon him. Her father bears it humbly, but she can sense buried within him the pride that comes with being the center of these people's world._

_"What did I do, pet?" He laughs, tousling her honey hair between his fingers. "Well, I knew I wasn't the leader Orzammar needed. So I did everything I could to become that leader. I built myself from the ground up, just as we build with stone. First I studied the paragons and learned how they achieved greatness. Then I put to practice some of the simple lessons I learned from them. I took small steps. I gained the trust of our people in what little ways I could, and then built upon that trust. And then, slowly but surely, I became a leader. I am not even completely sure how it happened, but I did as my instincts and desire to do good instructed me, and here I am today. But you already know this, don't you my Arlindria? You above all my children don't simply assume that you come pre-formed with power. You make that power for yourself, and become a leader with every step you take."_

As she runs through the tunnels of the Deep Roads, Arlindria remembers these words that had once inspired her to dream of holding the throne of Orzammar. Slowly she realizes exactly what Gorim had tried to make her understand. She may have lost her life as a leader to Bhelen and her own blind faith in herself, but that in no way means there is no hope of getting it back. She will simply have to build it again from the ground up, just as her father had. She will join the Wardens. She will work to reignite her strength and confidence in herself and her abilities. She will defeat the darkspawn and lead the people of Ferelden against the Blight. And one day she will return for Bhelen, whole and formed again in the image of her father, and this time he will be made to understand what mistake he made in underestimating her.

On the horizon, she sees Duncan surveying the tunnels at the side of a dark and stunning companion, the sister of Bhelen's lover. She has no idea what these two strange saviors think of her notorious exile and what they will say upon seeing her in a disarray of stolen armor paired with a dull blade she was meant to die swinging helplessly at endless darkspawn, but for the first time she does not care whether or not she is beloved. She will prove to them just as she will prove to the others who she is and what she is capable of. Even if they do not believe in her innocence, she will become worthy of whatever trust they have placed in the strength she once had.

With one final prayer to the ancestors for the safety or her father and her homeland, Arlindria Aeducan, Princess of Orzammar, steps forward from the shadows to meet the Wardens, ready at last to live and begin again.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up:**Britomart and Arlindria become surface dwarves and meet their fellow Wardens at Ostagar. With such an eccentric group of people gathered in one place, Maker knows if Ostagar will even survive to witness the darkspawn attack.


	13. Britomart: Surfacer

**A/N:**And now for the main story line! Our dwarven heroines head to Ostagar to meet their fellow recruits and prepare for their foray into the Wilds (which, contrary to whatever Hannon says, is to collect darkspawn blood, not to meet Asha'belannar). Little do they know that this day will mark the start of an adventure bigger than anything they have done in their lives... Enjoy!

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**Thirteen. Britomart: Surfacer.**

There is something strangely beautiful about the world outside of Orzammar. Britomart has been told since she was a child that when you step onto the surface, your stone sense and worthiness as a dwarf fall into the sky and float so far away that you can never get them back. And if you don't grip onto the ground tightly with your feet, you'll fall right after them, up, up, up into the endless ceiling of blue and white and gray that you cannot touch or feel beneath your hands. She had always believed in those words, and had foolishly been convinced that becoming a surfacer was a more pitiable fate than being casteless. But now, as she gazes up at the cloud speckled sky and frost flecked grass of the mountain, she wonders what had ever compelled her to believe in the lies of her birthplace. Orzammar is undeniably beautiful, and there is a certain comfort in being surrounded by the stone, but the surface she sees around her is wild and various, a new form of beauty and way of living she feels honored to explore.

Lady Aeducan steps up beside her, her body trembling beneath the armor she'd scavenged from the Deep Roads. Britomart has said nothing to her yet. Even though Arlindria has been stripped of her name and caste, she isn't sure she should speak to the former noble in case doing so would insult her. Normally, she wouldn't care about these stupid dictates of society, but there is something about Arlindria that silences her irreverence. There is an aura of quiet dignity surrounding her, and a spark of inextinguishable pride in her eyes. She is like an animal that has been wounded and trampled, but is still somehow strong enough to stand up straight and fight with courage. She is very much unlike the nobles Britomart has seen from time to time slumming in the Commons, their noses turned up in the air and sniffing disdainfully at the mere idea of a Brand in their presence.

"This is unsettling," Lady Aeducan whispers, staring in awe at Duncan striding down the mountain to where the surface dwarves are running their trade, his movements smooth and sure as if walking without the stone is the most natural thing in the world. "How are we supposed to move without falling?"

Britomart clears her throat, still nervous to speak directly to her liege. "So, you were told that, too?" she says finally, biting her lip. Never before has her Brand as a duster or the geometric tattoo crowning her forehead seemed so vivid on her skin.

"Of course. My father told me it was a ridiculous superstition, but still..." She prods the ground with the toe of her boot. "There has to be a reason why being here is so shameful for dwarves."

"Or maybe it's because we're all backwards fools that stick to our traditions and honor to the death." Britomart winces at the harsh sound of her own words. "Forgive me. Everyone tells me I have no manners."

"Think nothing of it. You aren't saying anything that isn't true."

Duncan turns around and calls out to the other two, "Try not to dawdle. I've received word from the south, and we're needed immediately at Ostagar. We're still a long ways away, and we have little time to spare."

Arlindria turns to Britomart and smiles shakily. "I hate to admit to a weakness, but I'm nervous. You're very brave, aren't you? If I remember correctly, you were the girl I was supposed to fight in the Provings, which tells me that you have a great deal of strength within you. Perhaps you can help me take the first step?"

Britomart lifts an eyebrow. "Are you teasing me? Even in Dust Town, I've heard all the legends about you. You defeated both of your brothers in combat when you were only fifteen. You out drank all the patrons at Tapster's on your birthday. You even convinced all the deshyrs in the assembly to vote for better sanitation for us dusters. How can someone like you be afraid?"

Arlindria shrugs. "I don't know. Back in Orzammar, I felt like I was on top of the world, but now that I actually am on top of the world, I feel smaller than ever. Everything is much bigger than I could have ever imagined." She sticks out her hand. Her skin is pale white like Rica's, smooth and familiar.

Britomart eyes the hand nervously before she at last accepts it. "Let's get this over with," she murmurs with determination, leading the way down the mountain and keeping their uncertain feet planted firmly on the ground.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Welcome to Ostagar," Duncan says, spreading his arms wide as if to encompass the haphazard surroundings of tents, fires, cots, and statues of faceless women clutching onto shields. "This is where we will be making our stand against the darkspawn forces that have been amassing in the Wilds. The king's army and the rest of the Grey Wardens have already been stationed here, as well as a few recruits I have found around Ferelden. I'm sure if you explore the camp for a while, they'll turn up somewhere."

"No need for that, shemlen." A tan skinned elf with thick caramel hair and an elaborate tattoo circling his right eye leaps down from the bridge leading into camp to land by their sides. "I heard your coming on the wind, and thought I'd come to meet you. Since the last of the recruits are here, does that mean we can go into the Wilds?"

Duncan shakes his head. "Patience, Hannon. Give these poor ladies a chance to rest their legs. We have been marching nonstop from Orzammar to come here on time, and they are still a bit unused to walking on the surface."

"Oh yeah. The Keeper told me once that they live in giant caves in the earth and never go outside." Hannon kneels a bit so he can study Britomart and Arlindria closer. "You know, I've never seen a dwarf before. I hear jokes that they're our natural foes, but you both are quite pretty."

"Thank you, I guess," Arlindria says. "So you are one of the recruits?"

"Yes. I am a Dalish archer from the Sabrae clan. I am unfamiliar with the Durgen'len, but I am eager to learn more. Is it true you cannot go to the Fade?"

"Hannon, perhaps you should wait until our friends have had something to drink to begin peppering them with questions?" Duncan suggests. His eyes travel to Hannon's back, where there is a long oak staff hooked onto his armor beside his bow. "Care to explain how you came to have that?"

"Oh? That? Alixire said I could hold it for a while if I stopped asking her questions and let her go to sleep. She was just getting up when I ran off to find you. Asha'nan and City Boy said they would follow after me when they finished eating. In fact, that should be them over there." He points across the bridge where a small group of three and a bear-like dog are walking to meet them. The shorter of the women starts waving her arms and yelling at the elf to give her staff back.

Duncan chuckles under his breath in tired amusement. "Well," he says, "as you can see from Hannon, I didn't choose them for their social graces. But I think you'll enjoy them. They are a spirited bunch in one way or another."

The mage runs ahead of her companions and arrives at their group panting and out of breath. "When I told you that you could hold it, I didn't say you could run off with it," she says lightly, snatching the oak staff away from the tattooed elf. "For all I know, you could develop magical powers and use some ancient spell from your people to blow everything up. Never mind that this place is swarming with the Chantry, and I could very well get in trouble for letting you have it."

"The Chantry," Britomart groans quietly. She had forgotten about them. It has been some time since the Aeducans have last permitted a missionary into Orzammar, so the fact that there is a whole slew of Maker-crazed sisters and brothers running around the surface had slipped her mind. She offers a short prayer to the ancestors to keep her safe from their incessant preaching and chanting about magic and holy dead women married off to a fictional spirit.

"I see you feel the same way as me about the Chantry," the mage says, grinning broadly. "I'm Alixire. A pleasure to meet you. Just make sure Dulcia and Alain and Ser Jory don't hear you bad mouthing their Maker. We're in the minority in Ferelden, so it's better to keep our opinions to ourselves."

"Eh, don't worry about City Boy," Hannon says dismissively. "I'll teach him about the real elven gods, and he'll be fixed up right away."

'City boy,' whom Britomart guesses is the short and slight elf with pale skin and a rumpled head of black hair, looks unfazed by this remark. He nods and says a polite hello to Arlindria and Britomart, but doesn't say much else, instead listening contentedly to the spirited banter between Alixire and Hannon, who were clearly the most talkative of the bunch.

"Duncan," the other woman says, "should I go fetch some food for our new recruits?" Britomart studies her casually, impressed by her looks more than she had been by the others. She is tall and statuesque, with curly black hair that is carefully pinned to the side by a clip styled like two interwoven olive branches. She meets Britomart's eyes for a moment and smiles, and the dwarf feels herself turning a little pink. If she was just a bit slighter and more delicate, she would be perfect, a Paragon of Beauty.

"Thank you, Lady Cousland, but I will be heading to our tent myself, so I can take care of that on my own. But if you would, I'd like for you to gather the remaining recruits. You've met Ser Jory and Daveth, I trust, and are familiar with their haunts around the camp. I'll be needing Alistair to join you, so if you could find him as well, I would be grateful."

"Alistair?" Lady Cousland says, considering the name for a moment. "I do not think I've met him. Is he among the Grey Wardens?"

"Yes. I cannot say where he is at the moment, but he is about your age and height, and has blonde hair and a shield with a yellow symbol like a sun."

"A Templar," Alixire murmurs under breath.

"Not quite, but he has the necessary skills."

"I shall search the camp for him," Dulcia says, bowing to Duncan. "I'll return as soon as I can."

"Thank you. As for the rest of you, you may take a few minutes for yourselves, but return to Grey Warden camp within the half hour. Britomart, Lady Aeducan, we have food waiting for you on the fire."

"I'll have some in a moment," Arlindria answers, her eyes straying to the area where the largest tent is pitched, an emblem of two wolves painted on the sides. "There is someone I wish to speak to."

"But be quick about it," Hannon says. "The sooner we all get together, the sooner we can all go off into the Wilds."

"And the sooner we can become Grey Wardens," Britomart adds.

Duncan nods his head solemnly, his hands straying to the amulet around his neck that held a small drop of pitch black fluid. "Yes, and that. And that most of all."

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up:**As Duncan requested, Dulcia combs the camp for Alistair, the newest Grey Warden. What starts as a simple meeting may have a greater impact than the still-wounded lady expects...


	14. Dulcia: The WardenTemplar

**A/N:**Hey Dulcia fans, she's finally back! After her ordeal in Highever, she seems like she needs something to take her mind off things. Who better than a certain cheeky junior Grey Warden? In other news, I'm getting my new laptop tomorrow so I can finally start playing Dragon Age 2. I'm a little late, but better late than never! Enjoy!

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**Fourteen. Dulcia: The Warden-Templar**

_Blonde hair. My age. My height. Templar shield. Blonde hair. My age. My height. Templar shield._

Dulcia stops in her tracks. She is standing in front of the magi encampment for what feels like the tenth time in the past half-hour. She's looped through the camp so many times that she's probably passed Alistair several times without realizing it. As firmly as she tries to focus on her mantra of Duncan's description of him and keep her eyes peeled in all directions, she can't help but search instead for the face of her brother among the crowds rather than the blonde Warden with a Templar shield.

She's been told several times already today that Fergus is still on his scouting mission and has not been seen returning from the Wilds. They've been saying the same thing to her ever since she first arrived at the camp with Alain, Alixire, Hannon, and Duncan. Not yet. Not today. But how long does it take to scout the Wilds and return safely to camp? Duncan had gone back and forth from Orzammar in the time she has spent waiting for her brother, and still the stupid scouting mission has gone on and on and on, keeping Fergus from her sight. She is half sick with worry that she will never see his face again, and that she will be forever lost and alone in her world, the last of her line, the last of the Couslands of Highever.

She sighs to herself and rubs her forehead. _Blonde hair. Templar shield. My age..._ She can do this. All the other recruits are functioning just fine on their own, and she wants to be as strong as they are. Her parents are dead. There is nothing she can do to change it or pretend it never happened. All she can do is live for their sakes and for herself, and survive to help defeat the darkspawn and see that Fergus is safe and prepared to return to his duties in Highever. She cannot allow herself to be defeated now, just as her new life among the Wardens is beginning.

Dulcia wanders back through the camp, this time sparing more attention to her surroundings. She sees a few Templar shields here and there, but none of the men possessing them match her description of Alistair. She walks further, examining the more remote areas of the camp. There are two men off in the distance in a place she has not yet looked, so she approaches closer, hoping she has finally landed upon her target.

"Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!"

Dulcia pauses as the sound of an argument reaches her. One of the men, a dark skinned mage, is yelling at the other, a blonde man about her age and height. His back is facing away from her, but she can see the edges of a shield past his arms. She can't see if there's a Templar symbol on it or not, but the amulet resting against his chest confirms that he is a Warden, and most likely the one she is looking for.

"Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message," the Warden quips sarcastically.

"Your glibness does you no credit," the mage says. From her safe distance, Dulcia scowls at him. This reminds her of something Oriana would say to her if she dared to sass anyone in her presence, even if she had done so affectionately as she often did with her father and Fergus. Then she remembers that Oriana is dead and beyond such things now, and her scowl vanishes into a grimace. Why hadn't she been kinder to her when she was alive? Oriana was just acting in the only way she knew, and Dulcia had never done anything but hate her for it.

"And here I thought we were getting along so well," the Warden says, smarting from the slight to his speech. "I was even going to name one of my children after you. The grumpy one."

Dulcia surprises herself by laughing. The sound is so strange and unfamiliar that she claps her hands over her mouth to force it back. She can't remember the last time she has laughed or even genuinely smiled. The rest of the camp has been filled with it ever since they had first arrived. Hannon and Alixire are enthusiastic jokesters, and even Alain from time to time issues light little chuckles from behind his hand. But Dulcia has never allowed herself to be happy around them before. Every time she feels her lips curling up in true amusement, she remembers her father bleeding on the floor and Dairren's body shielding hers before it fell to the ground. And in the face of such memories, all happiness and laughter dies before it can fully breathe.

"Enough with this inane comedy act. I will speak to the woman if I must." The mage pushes past Dulcia, deliberately glaring at her with an intense hatred. "Get out of my way, fool."

The Warden turns to Dulcia, clearly pleased at her laughter, even though it had been suppressed quickly. "You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," he says. "It's like a party! We should all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about."

Dulcia laughs again. The sound seems loud and garish to her, but she endures it when she notices the Warden's own smile growing at the sight of her amusement. The tips of her ears go pink. It feels good to have someone be grateful for her. She had almost forgotten how good it is to interact with people other than the disquiet and guilt in her own heart.

"I don't think we've met yet. I am Alistair. I assume you're one of Duncan's new recruits?"

"Dulcia Cousland," she says, shaking his hand. "From Highever."

"Ah yes! I remember the name. Your brother spoke of you often before he left on his mission in the Wilds. He seemed very fond of you. The way he talked about you made half the men in the camp fall in love with you, and that was even before he got to your physical description!" Alistair blushes a little, realizing that the only polite way to follow up upon this remark would be to compliment her for her beauty. For a moment, Dulcia is reminded of Dairren's reactions around her. She has always enjoyed making men squirm, and that this man is no exception to her pleasure warms her heart. She had thought she had lost herself back at Castle Cousland, but now here she is, slowly coming back to herself in pieces.

"He didn't do you enough justice, of course," Alistair says quickly. "I-I mean, he did his best, but I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's good to see you... in person." He laughs nervously, shaking his head. "Sorry about all that. I've always been a bit clumsy with flattery."

"No offense taken. It was very sincere of you."

"I've heard Fergus hasn't returned yet. Duncan told me what happened to your family, and we were all afraid about having to tell him. Although we all knew it would be a relief to him to that you were still alive. I remember he said one of his biggest regrets about coming to Ostagar was that he didn't have a chance to say goodbye to you before he left."

_All because I was busy seducing Dairren_, Dulcia thinks to herself. _I am a selfish, selfish person. I didn't deserve to survive that night._

"Oh, I didn't mean to make you upset," Alistair says, noticing her pained expression. "This all must be so terrible for you. Don't worry. I'm sure Fergus will come back soon and you'll be able to be there for each other to get through it."

"It's all right," Dulcia says, concentrating on not crying in front of him. "I'm just having trouble adjusting to the fact that I don't have a home to go back to right now. How about you? Where were you recruited?"

"I was in the middle of Templar training, against my will I might add. Duncan saw fit to rescue me from my fate, and here I am now."

"So you never became one, then?"

"Not officially. I have the talents, but I never took my vows." He eyes her curiously. "I heard there was a mage among the recruits. She won't be uncomfortable with me, will she?"

"Alixire?" Dulcia considers this for a moment. "I can't say she's too fond of Templars, but she can't afford to be sour on the matter considering that her lover is one."

Dulcia can't help but grin at Alistair's shocked expression at this news. "Maker, how did she manage that one? Templars are taught that even looking for too long at a mage would make them damned. Did the rules of the Chantry reverse over night?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well, you've piqued my interest about your companions, and I already know that I'm supposed to be accompanying you to the Wilds in a moment. Shall we head back to camp, Lady Cousland?"

"Call me Dulcia," she says. "And before we go, I would like to say thank you. I am eager to travel at your side."

Alistair looks confused at this remark. "That's a switch. And why are you thanking me?"

"Why not?" She touches his arm briefly and gestures him forward. "Come on, let's go."

As they head back into camp, she presses her fingers to her lips. She is still smiling. And for the first time today, it feels just as natural as breathing.

0o0o0o0o0o0

**Coming Up:**Arlindria ventures off to speak to her father's old acquaintance King Cailan for a quick education in human politics. Betrayal may be rampant in the dwarven world, but the human system in Ferelden seems more stable... or so the king thinks.


	15. Arlindria: A Gathering of Leaders

**A/N:**Hello again! This chapter features Arlindria Aeducan as she catches a glimpse of the political tensions of Ferelden. Everyone else may think all is well on the throne, but Arlindria can smell trouble from a mile off, and his name is Loghain Mac Tir. Enjoy!

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**Fifteen. Arlindria: A Gathering of Leaders.**

The guards in front of King Cailan's tent study Arlindria carefully, their eyes straying from her mismatched armor and weaponry filched from darkspawn corpses in the Deep Roads to the uncombed and unwashed explosion of blonde hair she hasn't been able to tame due to their nonstop traveling. She doesn't blame them for their skepticism at her grandiose announcement of her name and identity, but at the same time, the obvious smirks on their faces annoy her. If not for Bhelen, she would be able to waltz up to these humans and show them her family crest and gain immediate entrance. But then again, if not for Bhelen she wouldn't be here among ignorant humans to begin with.

"So, Princess of Orzammar, huh?" the taller guard says, his lips twitching. "And I'm the Empress of Orlais!"

"Oh, are you really?" Arlindria says, inclining her head to him. "I apologize for my rudeness, your majesty. Coming from a foreign land, I'm unsurprised now that you do not know who I am. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Lady Arlindria Aeducan, only daughter of King Endrin Aeducan, first among the houses of Orzammar. It is a pleasure to meet someone of your fame and splendor. Now, your majesty, may I speak to my father's old acquaintance, King Cailan?"

"Seems dwarves don't quite grasp the concept of sarcasm, eh?"

Arlindria snorts. "I could say the same for you, human."

A blonde head pokes through the flaps of the tent. "Now, now, what's this commotion? If someone has need to speak to me, I'll welcome them with open arms." The King's eyes fall on Arlindria, and a radiant smile dawns on his boyish face. "And see here? It's one of Duncan's newest recruits in front of you. You know better than to shut out a message from the Grey Wardens! Stone met, my friend, and a million apologies for my men's incompetence."

"But your majesty," the idiot guard cries, whimpering like a chastised animal, "she said she was the Princess of Orzammar, not Duncan's recruit."

"In that case, she should be doubly welcome to see me." The King grins and sticks out his hand. "My apologies, Lady Arlindria. It's been some time since I was in Orzammar, and I did not recognize you. You have grown since I saw you last."

"What? You mean she's really the Princess of Orzammar?"

"Why yes, your majesty," Arlindria says gravely to the Empress of Orlais. "It was very good to meet you, too. May good fortune always fall upon your nation!"

"And I see your sense of humor is still as sharp as ever, my lady," King Cailan says, gesturing her inside his tent. "But I am surprised to see you here of all places! I had understood that living on the surface is dishonorable for your people. And from what I remember of you, I thought you would be more interested in advancing to throne of Orzammar than throwing your lot with the Wardens, even as legendary as they are. Is all well in your home?"

Arlindria sighs in distress at having to admit her shame to the King of Ferelden, but for the sake of hearing his own perspective on the subject, she holds back nothing from him. It is agonizing to recall the sight of Trian's dead body and the look on her father's face when he heard Bhelen's accusations and so-called eye witness testimonies. His loving gaze had been so dark and wounded, so distrustful of her. _I always knew you had your eye on the throne, Arlindria, but to stoop to this? This spits on the faces of your ancestors and the name of Aeducan. I thought better of you. But you are no daughter of mine._

King Cailan grimaces at this and begins pacing the room. "I had forgotten how it is among the dwarves. If you need, once the darkspawn are taken care of, I can visit your father and speak on your behalf. Surely he will listen to reason. He is a good man, and was always so fond of you."

"Do not trouble yourself, your majesty. Once your caste is lost and your name is removed from the memories, there is little anyone can do. Unless I manage to become a Paragon, which is nearly impossible to do on the surface, there is no hope of Orzammar ever becoming my home again. It will be all I can do to assure Bhelen won't profit from what he did to me." Arlindria purses her lips. "And even when they know the truth, many men will argue that he should still profit from it. They will say the fact that he duped me and everyone else so flawlessly suggests he is stronger than me and deserves the throne more than I. Even I see the sense in that sentiment."

"You are too hard on yourself, my lady," King Cailan cries, patting her hands. "Surely his crime is something no one can forgive! In Ferelden, he would be tried and executed without hesitation."

"Orzammar is not Ferelden, your majesty." She tilts her head and glances up at him. "But I am curious about what you just said. In Ferelden does no one usurp the king and take power for himself? It is such a natural instinct that I am surprised to hear you find it so uncommon."

Cailan shrugs. "Oh, I wouldn't say it's that uncommon. It does happen once or twice through the ages. In Orzammar, don't you elect kings based on both blood and the vote of your Assembly? Although you trust children from noble houses such as Aeducan to do the best job, you also take into account what your secondary leaders have to say on the subject. But in Ferelden, blood is the only thing that determines rule. The child of the king will naturally become king because his blood has been blessed by the Maker. If someone else takes that right from him, it is seen as an offense to the Maker and a pollution of the royal blood."

"What if the one who takes the right also has royal blood? Like with Bhelen and I?"

"I suppose it is less frowned upon, but no one is happy to have a murderer for a king."

"I see. So your child is inevitably the one who will one day sit on the throne of Ferelden."

"Yes, if I had one. But alas, I do not. And my wife is getting past the age where she can. It is one of the issues that, as king, I will have to seriously consider. I just hope the solution I reach will not harm my wife or her father, whom I am both obliged to for the success of my rule."

"Didn't my father tell you it is never a good idea to be obliged to anyone else but yourself in terms of being king? Those you are obliged to are the first to stick knives in your back. Take it from someone who knows."

Arlindria leans forward, bursting with more questions. Human politics are different from what she is used to, but she finds them fascinating. Imagine being Queen as never having to worry about hands snatching the crown from her head! Imagine being so secure of her throne that the simple question of an heir is the most pressing to be dealt with. If only humans were smart enough to keep concubines, like the dwarves do. Then King Cailan would have more brats than he would know what to with.

"If you have no children, who becomes king? Your wife?" She wishes she had remembered to get some paper off of Duncan so she could take note of all this new information. "Or do you choose who follows you?"

"I would usually be obliged to make a distant relative with Theirin blood my heir, if there is one. If not, I would make my uncle Eamon my heir, and start a new royal line with the Guerrins."

"But is there a distant relative with Theirin blood?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. But that is a route that both he and I would rather not pursue. That is why it is necessary for me to have children, even if it brings trouble down upon me."

The Empress of Orlais sticks his head inside the tent. "Your majesty, Loghain wishes to speak with you."

"Of course. Let him in, let him in. Lady Arlindria, since you are so interested in Ferelden politics, now is a good time to meet someone who knows it better than anyone. Loghain is the father of my wife, and was the advisor to my father. Right now, he is the leader of my forces here at Ostagar, and is providing the strategy we will use to overcome to the horde."

Arlindria studies the man who walks through the tent flaps and considers him in terms of this information. Being father to the Queen means he is very close to the throne, and even has a certain degree of influence over it through his daughter. He will undoubtedly be unhappy to learn that the King is despairing of the Queen's ability to produce an heir, and might attempt to work against the King should he try to replace her with someone more fertile. That he once was the advisor to the former King suggests he has an ample amount of loyalty to the house, or at least one particular member of it. Perhaps he is like Lord Harrowmont, her father's advisor back in Orzammar, who had loyalties to Trian and herself, but never to Bhelen. Perhaps this man's fondness for the Theirins goes only as deep as the old king's legacy, and has little to do with the virtues and achievements of the son, just as Lord Harrowmont's does. As she listens to the two men speak, she hears frequent reference to 'Maric' and 'What would your father think?' from the man Loghain. Clearly she is right: there is a greater bond to the King of the past then there is with the one of the present.

_Ah, here I am thinking like I'm back in Orzammar again. Being defeated by Bhelen has made me overly suspicious, and I see a usurper lingering in every shadow. Fereldan kings are safe on their thrones, and as long as this man gets to exercise his power through some outlet, he should be content. And who am I, a dwarf, to even think of meddling in human politics? But then again..._

Arlindria sits patiently and waits for the King and Loghain to finish their discussion. Once they have agreed to meet later with Duncan and the mage commander, Uldred, after the Wardens have taken care of the Joining, Loghain bows and exits the tent, casting one single glance in Arlindria's direction. He nods shortly, acknowledging her in the manner of a warrior sizing up another of similar strength.

"Well, my lady Aeducan, it has been most fascinating speaking with you again," the King says, pumping her hand. "Is there anything else you needed to ask me?"

Arlindria can hardly help herself. "No, but I do have a word of advice. Watch out for rats in your nest. Not everyone in this world is as guiltless as you humans think."

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**Coming Up:**The Warden recruits venture out in the Wilds with Alistair. The ladies among the group make no secret of their distaste for a certain Ser Jory, and a rather one-sided battle of the sexes ensues. As a junior member of the order, one can only hope Alistair has some knowledge of how to keep the unruly band in line.


	16. The Ladies: Ser Jory

**A/N:**Well, if you haven't already guessed, I took a bit of a break for Christmas. Hope all of you celebrating the holidays had as much fun as I did! I got four new games for my Wii, so I'm in game heaven right now. But now it's time for a chapter on the cowardly Ser Jory and his interactions with the Warden ladies. As per a request I received, I posted a picture of all the Wardens on deviantart. The link is on my profile. Enjoy!

**Sixteen. The Ladies: Ser Jory.**

"So," Alistair says, scanning the assembled group of Warden recruits and trying not to feel overwhelmed by the number of innocent lives he has been put in charge of. "How many of you have seen a darkspawn before?"

Only three hands out of eight shoot into the air. Arlindria, Hannon, and Britomart. The rest shrug indifferently, as if the fact they are committing their lives to defeating a monster they have never seen before is of no consequence to them. Alixire and Dulcia mention that they have seen pictures of them in books, but Alain, Daveth, and Jory haven't even had that privilege. "If you point them out to me, I'll kill them no problem," Alain says, but Duncan's first two recruits don't seem as assured. Daveth tries to put on an obvious brave face, and Jory doesn't even bother to mask his nerves.

"Our mission today is to collect eight vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit," Alistair explains. "I would like it if all of you made an attempt to kill a darkspawn on your own, so you can gain more experience in engaging them. They are not your typical enemies, and you may have to learn new methods of fighting to properly threaten them. Use this as a learning opportunity, and don't be afraid. If we stick together, we should keep safe."

"And if any of you are worried about getting lost, there's nothing to worry over," Hannon says brightly. "I speak the language of the forest, and the trees will show us the way. Already the birds have told me where the horde is camped and where there is danger. They are flying east to the Brecilian to flee this taint."

"You talk to birds?" Britomart asks skeptically.

"Of course. They speak perfect elvish. I understand about half of what they say."

"Do they know if my brother is in the forest?" Dulcia asks.

"They see many men here. Some alive, many dead, some wounded. There is one ahead, as a matter of fact." He points to the horizon line where there is a soldier crying out and crawling on the ground, his body bright with blood.

As Alistair hurries ahead to over assistance, Ser Jory turns to Hannon. "You say there are many dead men here? The scouts that the king sent were supposed to be among the finest fighters available. If they haven't survived, how are we supposed to? This is a fool's mission. I say we turn back."

"Oh, that's rich," Britomart laughs. "You want us to wimp out on our first mission? How humiliating that would be for Duncan to know he gathered together such babies for his order. Only a child or a coward would flee at the first signs of danger, and I would hope you are neither, human."

"I am no coward, but I simply question the rationality of this venture. Why would our lives be put in danger before we can safely become Wardens? I have a wife and a child on the way in Highever. If I had known it would be like this…"

"I am the teryn of Highever's daughter," Dulcia interrupts. "Which woman is your wife?"

"Her name is Helena."

"I know Helena. From what I know of her, you would be wise not to diminish her in that manner."

"Diminish?"

"She is a strong woman, as are most in Highever. The fact that she condones your knighthood and recruitment into the Wardens tells me that she understands what risks exist in your lifestyle and knows that there is a possibility that you may die in the field of battle. Even if she does not wish you to die, she has known from the beginning it is a possibility she may face, and she has prepared herself for it. Do not diminish the sacrifices she has made in choosing you as her husband. She has chosen a man who has consented to die for his kingdom, and it would be an insult to that choice to revoke it because of her."

"And I should then leave her alone with a fatherless child?"

"Perhaps the child would be better off with a heroic and dead father than one that turned his tail on his duties and made a fool out of himself," Arlindria suggests. "If my father acted in such a way, I would have no pride in him."

"You speak as if she cannot raise a child without you," Britomart adds. "I was without a father, and practically without a mother, too, and my sister and I raised ourselves on our own. And we obviously did a better job of it than whoever raised you, because we at least have some stones on us."

"And you certainly aren't the only one who left someone behind," Alixire says coolly. "You aren't the only one with something special to lose."

Before Jory can say a word in his defense, Alistair returns to the group, his hands freshly stained with the wounded soldier's blood. "I had him bandaged, and he's on the way back to camp. And before you ask, Dulcia, I questioned him about your brother. He knows some members of Fergus' group are dead, but Fergus himself was not among them. He knows nothing else."

"Thank you for being so concerned on my behalf, Alistair," Dulcia says, smiling prettily. "Before we go further, perhaps you should ask some of the menfolk if they would like to go back to camp with their wounded fellow. It seems like this task may be too daunting for some of us."

Alistair glances at Alain and Hannon. Hannon is oblivious to the conversation, still whistling away to the host of birds that have gathered around him, and Alain shakes his head, indicating that Dulcia had not been referring to him. His eyes fall on Daveth and Ser Jory. Daveth quickly backs away, barking, "Don't look at me, as long there aren't any witches afoot, I'm good to go."

"Ser Jory?" Alistair asks, tentatively. "Is everything all right?"

"Oh, it's really nothing serious," Dulcia continues, still smiling. "It simply seems as if a certain someone thinks he can become Warden simply by virtue of being a strong, well-armed man. Never mind that the majority of us had many challenges in reaching this point, and are eager to prove themselves. I myself was lucky to even be recognized as a woman warrior. If everyone else had their way, one of my father's knights would have been selected as a recruit rather than me. I have much to prove to those who doubt me so I would rather die than shrink from danger, but perish the thought for those of us who came here easily, of their own will!"

Daveth pokes Hannon is the arm. "I think she's calling us men cowards. Don't you think we should defend ourselves?"

Hannon shrugs. "Why bother? My Keeper is a woman, and she is the finest among us. If I wish to defend myself as the better of a woman, I ought to at least best her. Until then, you will not hear a word of unnecessary pride from me. If Jory wishes to prove himself to Asha'nan, he knows how."

"Alain? I don't suppose you'll help?"

"The women make a fair point. There's nothing appealing about a man that hides behind the excuse of woman when he can't fight for himself," Alain says seriously.

Daveth sighs helplessly. "Alistair? You're not going to let her keep baiting him, are you?"

"Hmm?" Alistair is staring at Dulcia lecturing Ser Jory with a strange smile on his face. The more and more her eyes sparkle with the passion of her arguments, the softer his expression grows. She seems so regal, like a goddess of vengeance. She is injured, but she has the pride of a lion. No one will trivialize what she has suffered to get here, and what her wounds have made her become.

"Maker's breath, are you actually enjoying this? Do you want her to start punishing you next?" When Alistair doesn't answer, he groans and gives him another sharp poke in the ribs. "Hey, if she keeps it up he might go after her with that sword of his. Better not chance it, huh?"

"You think?" Alistair quickly steps in between Dulcia and Jory. "Um, we'd best get underway. Ser Jory, Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn and so we are in no danger of encountering the horde. And between all of the excellent and capable young ladies we have here to defend us, we should be more than safe."

"And don't forget me," Hannon says. "You'll need my help to make it through the forest."

"And Alain," Dulcia adds, somewhat repentantly for forcing Alistair to step into her argument. "He's good at killing things. Even better than me. And of course, our lovely guide Alistair. We're in this together."

"Except for two of us, it seems," Daveth whispers to Jory. "Do you get the feeling we might be in over our heads?"

"We'll be lucky if we can get out before we drown," Jory hisses back. "Mark my words."

0o0o0o0o0o0

**Coming Up:**Hannon achieves his goal of meeting Asha'belannar, but another, unexpected encounter may prove to be more influential to his future.


	17. Hannon: The Witch of the Wilds

**A/N:**Onto the conclusion of the Wilds! I had a great time writing this one. I think the combination of Hannon and Flemeth is amusing. If they had more time to hang out, I think they would definitely by best friends. For now, a short encounter will have to do. Enjoy!

0o0o0o0o0o

**Seventeen. Hannon: The Witch of the Wilds.**

The Kocari Wilds feels different from any other forest Hannon has ever been in. There's the smell, of course; the reek of the taint is so unnaturally strong that he can barely breathe without choking. But there is something else different about these woods that he's never experienced before. There is magic in every facet of this place, from the blades of grass to the highest leaves in the trees. It is not corrupt or demonic such as in the places where the Veil has been sundered, but rather ancient and even benevolent to a certain extent. Whoever spread this magic meant the forest no harm, but only sought to explore the natural depths of their abilities and to make themselves more powerful and learned. Hannon knows well from the clan lore that this is undoubtedly the work of Asha'belannar. Only she has ever had access to such strength throughout history. Even her daughters, of whom there have been many in legends, have never made quite a mark in the study of magic as their immortal mother has.

"Is it much further?" Daveth asks, looking longingly towards the forest entrance. Night has almost fallen, and the winds have picked up. Most of the recruits are unused to such cold temperatures, and even those were excited to be underway with their first mission have grown sour of being in forest. Hannon doubts any one of them has spent an extended amount of time in the woods, especially the stone bred dwarves and the tower locked Alixire. City Boy is the only one who seems as content ever, which Hannon chalks to either his inherent elven nature or his enjoyment at being the warrior with the most darkspawn slain. He was the first to get his darkspawn blood vial, and would have gotten the next four if Alistair hadn't politely asked him to step back for a moment and let the others have a turn. Such pride would certainly take the chill off an evening such as this.

"In case you've forgotten, we're supposed to find some Warden treaties, too," Britomart reminds Daveth, folding her arms across her chest to warm her body. She is still in her Duster get up from Orzammar, which is hardly substantial given the patchiness of the material, and even though she does her best to hide her chills, it is so obvious to everyone around that Alixire has taken to creating little balls of fire from her staff to keep her from keeling over. "We're looking for some ruins, right?"

"They're not far," Alistair says. "But we should be careful. These woods are known for housing Chasind, and we have been lucky so far not to run into any. I would be surprised if our good fortune remained for the whole journey, unless the Wilders cleared out when the darkspawn came."

"It's not the Chasind you have to watch for," Daveth interrupts. "It's the Witches of the Wilds. They'll put you in the pot, they will, and eat you right up."

"Pah," Hannon says dismissively. "Asha'belannar has more subtlety than that. She'll enchant you first, and _then_ eat you. Which you will have earned, of course. We are invading her forest."

"It was my impression that forests belonged to no one but themselves," Jory says. "Isn't what that what you elves believe?"

Hannon frowns, smarting at this slight to his people. "_We elves_, as you say, believe as you humans do, that things can be changed by magic. The only difference is we can sense when it happens, and feel it in the forest. Make no mistake. This is her forest, human, and you would do wise to tread lightly and touch only what must be touched."

He strides ahead of the others, readying his bow. If he lets them stumble around blindly, they'll end up insulting the presences in the forest and getting themselves killed. Just as Tamlen did, when Hannon indulgently allowed him free reign of the Arlathan ruins. But this time, he will be there in time. He will intercede for the fools among them and appease the forest to keep the others safe. Maybe Asha'belannar will be grateful for him. If she is listening, maybe she understands that unlike his companions, he knows she is not a mere Witch of the Wilds, but a veritable force of nature.

After a few minutes, Alistair calls from behind. "Those are the ruins we are looking for, Hannon. Do you see anything there?"

"There's a broken chest ahead. The lock has been damaged, and there is growth all over it."

"That must be it. The seal should be intact, but a Grey Warden can break it. Just wait up for me, and then we can be out of here."

Hannon pauses for a moment, hearing a faint rustling within the leaves of the trees surrounding the ruins. He lifts up his hand. "Stay for a moment, shemlen. I hear something ahead. It would be better for you if I took care of this. I do not think this woman will have patience to deal with anyone who does not have respect for what she is."

A smooth, lilting chuckle comes from within the tower ruin, and a dark haired, dark eyed woman steps out from the shadows and descends the steps towards them. She fixes her wolf-like gaze on Hannon, assessing him as she would a challenging and delicious prey, like a crafty fox caught in her net. The closer she gets, the more he can feel her magic. It is different from Alixire's, which is innocent and new like unblemished skin, or the Keeper's, which is more rough and ancient like craggy stone. This woman's is wild and untamed like an animal, but at the same time deliberate and neatly formed, fitted to her like a glove. He wonders if this is who she is as well. A mixture of independence and self-reliance balanced with an adherence to the old and forgotten arts.

"I should have guessed the Dalish would feel my eyes watching. The sharpness of your kind does you credit." The woman circles around him as the rest of the group approaches. "Tis not often I am discovered before I choose to reveal myself. I must admit I am impressed."

"I am sorry to be intruding in your forest, lethallin," he says, bowing his head to her. "It is not my custom to come uninvited, but I am under the orders of the Grey Wardens to be here. Rest assured, we have harmed nothing not already corrupt and tainted, and have harbored no ill will for anything that may belong to you."

The woman laughs again. "You have already anticipated my accusations before I could make them. Clever. But I do wonder if I can say the same for your companions. Already some are approaching us expecting curses to rain down on them. You are not so foolish, I hope."

"That's a Witch of the Wilds," Daveth cries out, as Hannon expected him to. He wishes Alistair had heeded Asha'nan's advice to let the weaker members of their group go back to camp. Between Daveth and Jory, it seems they are bound and determined to have everyone killed, as long they have leave to save their own skin.

"Such idle fancies," the woman says coolly, turning her eyes to the approaching recruits. "Do not tell me what I am, as if I do not know myself. If you would know if the legends are true, ask me yourself. This Dalish is no scared little boy. Perhaps he will do the honors then, and ask me what you all wish to know."

"I am Hannon Mahariel of the Sabrae tribe, and my companions are recruits of the Grey Warden order. Would you give us your name, daughter of Asha'belannar?"

"So he has knowledge as well as bravery. How amusing." The woman's lips quirk slightly in a pleased smile. "You can call me Morrigan, if you will. Tis been many years since I have heard my mother called by that name. She will enjoy your reverence, if not your companion's fanciful legends."

"Fanciful legends or no, we came here for the Grey Wardens treaties," Britomart says pragmatically. Her skin is covered in goosebumps and her teeth are chattering. "If they are not here, where can they be found? It is best we not linger here and cause more trouble."

"Perhaps the durgen'len have never heard of Asha'belannar, but it is unwise of you to be in such a hurry," Hannon advises her. "We can learn much here that we will never have the chance to learn again. Even if you do not understand, you should listen and heed."

"Ah, a sensible statement." Morrigan eyes him with renewed interest. "I like you. And, as your luck would have it, my mother is the one who has been preserving your precious treaties. Would you like to see her, perhaps?"

Hannon's heart pounds in his chest. He wants to see Asha'belannar more than anything. He always has. He has always hungered for her knowledge, the feel of her power tingling his senses, the sound of her words of wisdom only her timelessness could grant her. He wants to be like her: untouched by the outside world, influenced only by magic and the pursuit of greater strength. But even still, he is surprised by himself. A part of him wants to stay right where he is. There is nothing ageless or old or immortal about this young and sharp tongued woman eyeing him, but he thirsts for her approval nonetheless. He has never dreamed of anyone like her like he has dreamed about Asha'belannar, but there is something about her he likes. She is accessible and real, yet still daunting, still a step ahead of him. She is something he would not like to become himself, but someone he wants to know better.

"Follow me, if it pleases you," she says, and he needs to further provocation to go wherever she leads him, stranger though she is.

0o0o0o0o0o0

Asha'belannar looks different than Hannon expected. He had been imagining a goddess like figure with long white hair and a face that never aged, but the woman in front of him is old and peppery, like someone's wizened and cranky grandmother. She reminds him a bit of what the Keeper would look like without her ink tattoos crossing the wrinkled lines of her face. In spite of these disappointed expectations, he finds himself almost instantly liking her. He can see in her eyes that she knows things, far more than he will ever have the chance to know, and there is an accompanying mischievousness which suggests she will keep her secrets to herself, no matter how many questions he asks her in an attempt to learn them all.

"So these are the Wardens, girl?" Asha'belannar asks her eyes falling on each of them for a moment. It almost seems as if she is scanning their futures as she looks at them, and is amused by what she sees. Even surprised, to some degree, as if they have more in store for them than she had originally imagined. "As I expected. There is a great deal of talent among these men and women, and equal measure of passion in some. There is bitterness and old wounds, and a few heavy helpings of curiosity here and there. Perhaps this does bode well."

"What is she talking about? Does this mean she wants to eat us?" Daveth whispers to Alistair, who looks more concerned about whether Asha'belannar is deranged rather than a dangerous sorceress. Alistair doesn't seem as if he is well suited to crazy types. He is too human in that sense. His first instinct is probably to lock her up, or else make a little joke. Asha'belannar would probably like the joke more than the former, Hannon thinks. She'd probably had enough of people wanting to lock her up over the years.

"Is that what you believe of me?" Asha'belannar laughs in her croaky voice. "No, I did not hope to find much wisdom in you, boy. How about you, hmm?" She closes in on Hannon. "The Dalish are known for their wisdom. Do you believe? And you?" She turns her eyes to Alixire. "Do you not sense what magic exists in this place?"

"I know what people say you are, especially what my own people say," Hannon says, trying to keep his eagerness respectful rather than overwhelming. "But there is only so much you can believe without seeking the truth."

"And I only know what I can sense from you," Alixire says, nearly struck speechless in awe at this greater power. "I do not know what to believe."

"Fair answers. One seeks to know the solutions to his questions, and one wishes to know what questions to ask. One foot on the right path is better than none at all. As for me? So much about who all of you are is uncertain. But do I believe? Why yes, it seems I do." She laughs again. "Your people know a great deal more than the humans with their Witch of the Wilds tales, Dalish elf. I can answer you that at least. Many years I do have, but I am no witch who waits around the forest to turn stupid little men into frogs. Don't let my Morrigan tell you such things. She always fancied such silly tales."

"But is it true you are the same Asha'belannar who has survived through many ages? That you are the one who possesses knowledge that even the Tevinter Imperium and the elves of Arlathan never came close to understanding?"

"Ha! And he knows just the questions to ask to tickle my ego! Charming boy." Asha'belannar reaches forward and strokes his hair fondly. "But you have as many thoughts to share with me as there are stars in the sky. Your companions have come for their treaties, and do not wish to dally here. Besides, I have a feeling that even if I send you away now, you will be back before I know it." She withdraws a small stack of papers from her pouch. "Here they are. Your seal wore off long ago, and I have kept them safe from the Wilders and animals of the forest. Take them to your Wardens and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize. Your king may think the war will be over tonight, but he has not seen what army lurks in this forest. He would do well to question his strength, and the strength and dedication of the men who fight behind him."

"Mother, they did not come to hear you preach at them," Morrigan groans.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure Hannon did," Alixire whispers. The elf nods. He most certainly did, and has not yet been disappointed.

"My daughter grows weary of this, it seems," Asha'belannar says. "And now you have what you came for. Morrigan, see them through the forest. If all goes well, pray that this may be the last time we will be obliged to meet."

"I hope we will meet again, in any case," Hannon says, bowing to her. "But I see our time now has passed. Dareth shiral, my lady."

"My lady? How delightful! Morrigan, if this boy does not get snatched up by the blight, we must do it ourselves." She throws back her head and laughs wickedly, her old woman's voice surprisingly strong and powerful.

"Don't tease, Mother," Morrigan snaps, pushing her way to the front of the group to lead them out of the Wilds. Hannon cannot tell what has vexed her, but he hopes it is not him. He wants her to like him. He doesn't mind the idea of being snatched up, especially by her. If the two of them want to boil him in the pot, he is happy that he has interested them that much. Perhaps they will share their secrets with him as he goes and he will have his precious knowledge to take with him to the grave, dying with his hands once feebly touching the understanding of true power before he falls, as Tamlen once did, into the blissful eternal darkness. He can think of worse fates for himself, because right now, dwelling on these thoughts, he is as happy as he has ever been.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up:**The Wardens are initiated into the order with a test of blood, and are given special tasks to assist the king's army in the battle. However, this is a night of betrayal and survival of the fittest, and not everyone will escape the night without scars and a surprising taste of where the darkspawn threat will lead their futures.


	18. The Wardens: Night of Fate

**A/N:**Time for a longish one! The Wardens become... Wardens, and must suffer through Loghain's betrayal (like Howe, it'll take a while for him to get his. Happy New Years everyone! Enjoy!

0o0o0o0o0o0

**Eighteen. The Wardens: Night of Fate.**

_The Joining. _Alain thinks it is a good name for what is about to happen to them. Daveth insists that it sounds like a sex chapter out of a tacky romance novel, but Alain has a feeling it was chosen for the better connotations the word holds, the ones of firm emotional unity rather than of physicality. Right now, as they are, they are separate from one another and bound tightly in who and what they appear to be. People see them walking through camp and form their own assumptions. What are the two dwarven girls doing away from their forges? Why has the young mageling been permitted to leave the magic encampment and blatantly disregard the orders of the Templars? Why is the Alienage elf roaming free, a servant to no one but himself and his own will? It is as if everyone can see they are not Joined by anything yet. They are still trapped in their own skins and own lives, and have no other common purpose with one another but to be far from where they came.

The chalices sit on the altar in front of them, filled with the darkspawn blood they had collected in the Wilds. Only Hannon knows what it feels like to taste it, but he is strangely silent and solemn about this ceremony. They all are. It is no simple command what Duncan is asking them to do. To submit to the darkness, to master it, to accept it inside themselves. Such a strong and profound statement is the perfect gateway into becoming a Grey Warden. His mother would have enjoyed it. _No true warrior exists with a perfect, pure soul, _she had once said to him. _We all have stains on our hearts, our sins and deepest desires, and it is no weakness to realize they are there and acknowledge they are a part of who you are, the core of what makes you strong and different from any other heart in the world_.

Daveth is the first to drink, and Alain is saddened though not surprised when he does not make it. He'd had his suspicions after the Witch of the Wilds incident that something like this would happen. A Grey Warden can't go about succumbing to terrors when countering the strange and unusual, considering that what they become with the Taint inside them is about as potently and darkly magical as what that Flemeth woman and her daughter were. The reaction of Jory to Daveth's death is also expected. Forgetting how Dulcia scolded him, he brings up the wife and child again, insisting he cannot die for something like this. He withdraws his sword, but still he dies, giving his life for a cause less worthy than the one he had refused. Alain wonders if this was what he truly wanted—to see his death coming, in a form and shape he could acknowledge and understand—or if he had really thought he could escape his fate and sink back into whatever life he had left behind as if what he had done and abandoned had never truly happened.

Dulcia is next. Alain is not afraid for her; she is strong and impenetrable, so much so that as soon as the Taint touches her, she will inevitably exercise her control over it and bend it to her being. She staggers a little, resting her hands on the ground for balance. Her eyes glow white and widen, and then she falls onto her back. Duncan pronounces her alive, and passes a chalice to Alain.

"You are called to submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good. From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden."

Wordlessly, Alain lifts the glass to his lips and drinks from it. It is a strange taste. It is not quite liquid, but runs through him like memory. It lights a spark deep within him. He can hear the minds of the darkspawn, the song that calls them on. He hears the scream of a dragon, the pain of its corruption and defilement, the sound of its plea for release at his blade.

He sinks to his knees. Along with all of this, he feels a comforting knowledge running through him. He is no longer Alain Tabris of the Alienage, a solitary figure burdened by the confusion and emptiness of his past. He is a part of something now. He is a Warden. He has been Joined.

0o0o0o0o0o

"The battle is nigh, and we have our orders from King Cailan," Duncan says to the fresh batch of Wardens once they have all sufficiently recovered from their ordeal and delivered the bodies of Daveth and Jory to the Chantry officials to be returned to the Maker. "Most of our order will be working together with the King's men, but he has made some special requests of you before you join the battle. I know many of you wish to fight, but these tasks are also essential to our success. It will also afford you more time to recover before you face the horde directly."

"You mean I won't be fighting?" Alistair asks, his lips jutting out in a pout.

"I'll repeat that these are orders from _King Cailan_. I wouldn't recommend ignoring them, unless you would like to sit out of the battle completely." He turns to Dulcia and Alistair. "The two of you have been asked to head to the Tower of Ishal and light the signal fire for Loghain's charge. There should be very little resistance in that area, so if you perform your task quickly, we'll send for you to join the battle as soon as possible. Everything hinges on our strategy with Loghain, so this signal is essential to us. You may not think it glorious, but it is much more important than you realize."

"Very well," Dulcia says. "Should we leave right away?"

"I'd advise it. It's a long climb to the top of that tower, and it is necessary you be ready as soon as we send the signal. Stay safe, and good luck."

"How about the rest of us?" Britomart asks.

"I will need three of you to return to the Wilds. And yes, I am aware that's where much of the horde will be, but I will not be sending you directly into danger. There is a remote entrance to the forest in our camp, one that darkspawn do not know of or use. With the horde on the move, several of our remaining patrols will be trying to return to camp through this entrance. Your task will be to monitor this path and keep it safe so that our scouts will not be overburdened with darkspawn when they arrive. I expect many of them will be injured, so their safety is paramount. Alain, Britomart, and Lady Aeducan, you will handle this until you are summoned to the battle."

"You're asking City Boy and the durgen'len to handle a forest?" Hannon objects. "Do you forget there is a Dalish among you?"

"Not all. The final task is something I can only entrust to yourself and Alixire. Our infirmary is short staffed in relation to how many men will suffer injuries, and the King has asked to borrow your knowledge of herbs and remedies as well as Alixire's healing magic to help the soldiers injured in the initial onslaught. I know you feel most comfortable in the forest, but no one else among you has your healer's knowledge, which will be invaluable to our wounded and ill."

"Ah, then I suppose I have no choice. Keeper Marethari would hunt me down if I tried to pass up the opportunity to prove the superiority of Dalish medicine."

"Glad to hear it." Duncan sighs and glances at the assembling army. "In spite of what the King says, this will be no easy battle. Your efforts are essential, and I pray to the Maker that He will smile down upon them tonight. Above all, stay safe and do the Wardens proud. I will see you again when the battle has been resolved. Good luck to you."

0o0o0o0o0o

_There wasn't supposed to be any resistance here_. Just like that night. They were supposed to sleep soundly in their beds and wake up safely the next morning. Howe's men were supposed to aid them, not come into their rooms with knives and slit their throats while they dreamt innocently of trivial things. There wasn't supposed to be blood or pain or dying screams. Dairren was supposed to accompany her father here, to Ostagar. She was supposed to stay home and mind the castle and her mother, far, far, away from this tragedy.

A spray of blood hits Dulcia's face as she sinks her blade into the ogre's flesh. She is okay and Alistair is okay, but just barely. There are wounds everywhere. Her entire body is bruised and scarred, and she aches so much she can barely breathe. She can only imagine what it is like outside. For the first time she wonders if they really have a chance. This is no glorious tale like the one Cailan is hoping for. There is nothing heroic about the number who lie dead thanks to these tainted creatures.

"We've surely missed the signal," Alistair says, helping Dulcia to her feet. "We need to light that fire for Loghain to charge."

"I hope it's not too late." She pulls a torch from the wall and thrusts it onto the kindling, setting it aflame. "It feels like it has taken ages for us to get here."

"I have faith in our soldiers. Surely they've endured for this long."

"We can only hope they have. But we should head back down and see if more darkspawn have come to the tower."

She turns around, and finds her answer waiting for. Black, beady eyes stare back at the two of them, and arrows point at her from every direction. This time, unlike the night of her family's murder, there is no time to think or move before their weapons are unleashed upon her. Pain lances her body, and she falls to the ground beside Alistair, her wounds bleeding scarlet pools onto the cold floor. _Father, Mother, watch over me! _she prays, and she thinks she can almost hear their voices soothing her from the darkness, telling her that she is not over yet, she is only just beginning. A scream of a dragon dispels the words for a moment, and in another she hears nothing at all, not even the slowly fading beating of her heart.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Something doesn't feel right. Or maybe it's that it just doesn't sound right, which seems more likely. Britomart has been listening attentively for a while now, waiting for the sound of the scouts' boots on the forest floor seeking sanctuary, and there are a great many things to hear from their post. The screams of the darkspawn, the screams of the humans and Wardens, the yelps of the Mabari. Everything dies around them in as flurry of noise, and they must sit there silently, waiting for the people who will never find them. There are just too many darkspawn. There is no escaping them.

"Do you hear that?" she asks Alain and Arlindria, pointing vaguely off into the distance. It is the sound of armor clinking, or boots stomping in unison. Not at a run, but at a steady march. One, two, three, one, two, three. It is a sound unsuited for the battle. It is not chaos or men running to place their blades in the chest of darkspawn. It is neatness. Order. Neat and orderly desertion.

"I smelled a rat earlier," Arlindria whispers. "Look." She points upward to where the Tower of Ishal rises over the treeline. The beacon is lit, shining vividly over them.

"That doesn't sound like a charge to me," Alain murmurs. "Should we go back?"

"And tell King Cailan that he is in the process of losing thousands of his men?" Britomart barks, a feeling of panic washing over her. "Maybe he can tell the darkspawn to pause for a moment so he can sort it out!"

"Peace, Britomart," Arlindria says, though her voice is no more steady. "There must be something we can do."

A bird lands on Alain's shoulder and begins chirping, just as they had for Hannon earlier in the day. Britomart isn't sure how much she believes in the elf's claims that the birds speak elvish and that he can understand them, but it does almost seem as if this bird is trying to communicate something to Alain. She wonders if he can understand it. Hannon had said he comprehended around half of the birds' expressions, but he is a native elven speak where Alain is not. Even if there is something to be understood, she doubts he is capable of grasping it.

"I think we are supposed to go," Alain murmurs. "I think we are supposed to follow the bird."

"And just abandon your king?" Britomart asks, lifting an eyebrow. "Besides, you don't even speak that thing's language. How do we know you're not making something up?"

"I don't know. It's just this feeling I have. I think we need to find Morrigan and her mother. If we turn back, we're going to die. And I think what it's trying to say to us is that we have to live."

Britomart closes her eyes. He is right. She is not ready to die. She is not allowed to die before she ends this Blight for her family and proves to herself and everyone else that she is worthy of something. If she dies now, she will have accomplished nothing. She will go unmourned in Orzammar, and everyone will piss on her name. _Britomart the freak. Britomart, who didn't even survive a day as a Grey Warden, a shame to her family._

"Fine," she says, clenching her fists. "Let's follow the damn bird. Let's get out of here."

0o0o0o0o0o0

The sisters are praying the Chant around her. This is how she knows it is over, that she is about to die. They've stopped caring for the wounded. No wounded have been sent to them, because the people who were supposed to shepherd the wounded are dead. There are no wounded at all, anyways. There are only the dead, and the people who will be dead in a moment's time. She and Hannon are the latter.

_Let the blade pass through the flesh, let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice._

Alixire wants to scream at the sisters to shut up. The Chant of Light won't save them now. The Maker isn't coming for them. He has abandoned them, just are surely as Loghain has. They are dying around Him in droves, and the tainted creatures who had once tainted His city are now about to overcome His world. But still He does not care. Still there is no sign of Him, still there is only evidence of death.

_Cullen_, she thinks to herself as she waits for the darkspawn to come for her. _Cullen, I am breaking another promise to you. I won't be able to find you again. I've failed you so many times over, and now there will be no forgiveness for me. Stay safe, I beg of you, stay safe._

She hears a low growl coming from behind her. It has to be a darkspawn. She prepares herself for her death. She hopes it is quick and painless, a swift knife through the heart that silences her body before she can feel anything. She doesn't want to think about what the darkspawn will do to her. She doesn't want to dwell on the fact that her freedom ended in death, just as the Templars always said it would.

"We have company," Hannon whispers, turning Alixire to face the black dog that has appeared by the infirmary cots. "It's Morrigan."

"No, that's an animal," Alixire protests.

"Nope, that's definitely Morrigan. Concentrate on the animal. You can feel that magic, can't you?"

She focuses and nods. It is not magic she is accustomed to, but it's magic all the same. Hannon has spoken to her of the shapeshifting magic that had been lost by the elves generations ago, and she wonders if this is what Morrigan is replicating.

The dog howls and darts of through the camp. Hannon quickly gathers his bow and quiver and makes to dash after it.

"So we're just going to leave?" Alixire calls, running after him. "Are we any better than Loghain if we do that? What about Duncan? And all the others?"

"Duncan is dead, and gods know where everyone else is," Hannon calls back to her. "You can stay here and die if you want, but I still have a life left to live. If there are no Wardens left to quell the Blight, everything will be lost to the darkspawn. The Dalish. The Circle. If saving them means failing as Wardens, then we've misunderstood what being what a Warden is supposed to mean."

"You're right," she realizes. "I… I still have a promise to keep."

She follows after Morrigan and Hannon, trying to not to think of who she is leaving behind. Duncan. King Cailan. All of the Wardens she never had the chance to meet. The Maker had abandoned them, but she will not abandon the rest of His world. Andraste had failed in making the last sacrifice. Now they would have to, in her place.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up:**The Wardens discover what situation Loghain's betrayal has left them in. Alistair is on the verge of breaking down at the news of Duncan's death, but Dulcia has some words of comfort about how to live after losing everything you love to death.


	19. Dulcia: Balm of the Wounded Soul

**A/N:**This was actually supposed to come out yesterday, but got into my first car accident (someone ran a red light and hit me) and I was reduced to a useless bundle of nerves and tears for the rest of the day, much like Alistair in this chapter. Thankfully I'm okay now and ready to write, though I probably won't want to go near my car for a while. Which is good, because that means more time to indulge in a little more Dragon Age goodness. Enjoy!

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**Nineteen. Dulcia: Balm of the Wounded Soul.**

When Dulcia wakes, she is in an unfamiliar place. The sheets of the bed she is lying in are coarse and patched in several areas, and the bed itself is tough and scratchy as if the wood it is made from hadn't been properly scrapped by its carpenter. She certainly isn't in Highever, that's for sure, but she isn't quite sure where she's gotten herself off to now, or why her body aches and throbs and weighs her down with heaviness.

She glances around the room. She is in a cottage of some sort, and her companions are resting around the bed on the floor. She is unsurprised to see them at first, but in a moment she recalls that they are supposed to be at Ostagar, just as she is. How have they all gotten here? Aren't they supposed to be out helping the King? Isn't she? A feeling of panic grips her as she remembers the Tower of Ishal and the signal fire she and Alistair had lit. Had Loghain responded in time? Was the battle still raging, and how had she managed to survive it if her vague memory of being ambushed by darkspawn is correct?

"Ah, I see you are awake," a familiar voice says from the doorframe. Dulcia glances over at the woman watching over her. She is the Witch from the Kocari Wilds, the girl who had returned their treaties to them and was the daughter of the batty old woman who claimed to be Flemeth. "Your companions worried that you might not survive, but with the amount of healing magic and Dalish remedies that were forced into you tonight, I would have been more surprised if you didn't."

"Did you rescue us? From the tower? I'm afraid I don't remember what happened after we were attacked."

"Not I. Twas my mother, in fact. While she went flying off to pluck you and your friend from the tower, I was sent off to find your two companions who were left in the camp. And, as you can see, I arrived before any harm could come to them. Only you and your friend suffered great injury, but you are both well now."

"You retrieved them from the camp? But what about the battle?"

Morrigan grimaces and turns her face away. "Over. The man who was supposed to respond to your signal quit the field and left your king and his men to die unaided. My mother and I salvaged your companions before they were treated to victorious horde that overtook the valley, but everyone else is dead. Your friend isn't taking it very well."

"You mean Alistair? Well, neither am I!" Dulcia rises to her feet, her body trembling. "Duncan is gone? The Grey Wardens and King Cailan? Why would Loghain do such a thing? The King trusted him! We all were counting on him to end this darkspawn threat before it could injure us further!"

"We do not always place our trust in the most reliable outlets. Surely you know this." Morrigan pushes a window curtain open so Dulcia can see Alistair standing outside, staring broodingly into the forest. "He is making a fool of himself in his grief. Your other companions already knew when they came here what had occurred, and though I doubt they even understand the full impact of what happened, at least they are ready to move forward rationally. But if they awake to the sight of one of their leaders wailing about and crying like a child, I quite doubt they will have the resolve they need to look past this loss. This Alistair seems to look up to you. Perhaps it would help if you went out to calm him down before the others witness his little scenes."

"He does have every right to be sorrowful. Those were his friends." Dulcia studies Alistair's pained frown from behind the window and sighs to herself. The sight of his grief is painfully familiar. She wonders if it is too soon for her to approach it, to acknowledge that the wounds she will demand him to look past are the same ones that still mar her. How can she expect to heal him when she is still damaged herself?

"I can try," she says finally. "I will not promise anything. But I will try."

Morrigan steps back to allow her to pass. "Tis all I can ask of you. Go to him, and when your companions are all awake again, my mother will wish to speak to you about what must be done. No easy road awaits you in these coming days."

"No, I did not expect so. No easy road ever has."

0o0o0o0o0o

When he first sees her face as she comes from the cabin, Alistair looks for a moment as if he has forgotten his grief. His face washes over in relief, and he reaches out to touch her arm as if he is not quite convinced she is real and not a ghost. He tells her he had almost thought she was dead. Alixire had looked so worried when Flemeth brought them to the Wilds, and even Hannon had been deadly serious when tending to her. He is glad she is well now, and that all their efforts for her had worked. He didn't want to be the one out of them to survive, if it came down to that. She is much more deserving, he says. She is a strong and vital person.

His face crumples a little. He backs away from her and tries to hide himself by looking away. "I should have died with them," he says in a hollow voice. "I shouldn't still be here if they are gone." He sounds so defeated, so careless. She wonders if this was how she herself had sounded to Duncan as he dragged her out of Highever. She had been ready to die, too. She would have gladly traded places with any one of the people who had been killed by Howe if it meant they would live again. But now, after much thought and deliberation, she is not so certain that she feels the same as she did back then. If her mother or father were in her place now, they would be just as unhappy as she is. They would wonder why she died and not they, why the Maker had plucked a young life and left them instead to live old and alone and exhausted.

Dulcia steps tentatively towards him, reaching out a hand. "I know it isn't good of me to say this, but I understand how you feel. It isn't easy being the last one left. It is a heavy burden of guilt that weighs you down forever, when you are alive and everyone you love is dead. But it is not unmanageable. It is hard to believe this, I know, but it is true."

"But if Duncan had been in my place… The world needs to someone like Duncan now, not someone like me. Of all the people the Maker saw fit to save, why did he not choose Duncan? Or King Cailan, at least. I can do nothing. I barely know how to be a proper Grey Warden, much instruct those of you who only just joined. It will be a disaster. I'll end up killing you all."

"Give us some credit, Alistair. Each of us is very proficient in taking care of ourselves. We will not overburden you or make things any hard than they already are. And as for you being in Duncan's place, I have thought the same thing about myself many times. When I walked out of Highever, all I could think of was how the Maker was cruel for taking my father and mother when he could have taken me. I would have been no great loss. I don't know anything about being a teyrna or leading a whole army of men into battle. But perhaps I must learn these things one day. Because I am the one alive, and there is no going back from that. If I wish death on myself, I only do injury to the memory of my parents. They gave me this life as their final gift, and to spit on it is to spit on them. I cannot do that. The pain of living without them is strong, almost unbearable, but I cannot take the easy way out to appease my own selfishness. Nor should you."

Alistair looks at her again, his eyes damp and beseeching. "You are a good person, Dulcia. Your words are so king and gentle, but I wasn't made to be as strong as you. What if I'm not ready for what lies ahead?"

"You are a Grey Warden. Duncan put his faith in you, and so will I. If he didn't think you could do this, you wouldn't be here right now. None of us would be here. I'm not sure what it will entail yet, but I do know that it will be possible for us, and we will do our part to make this right again. Please don't give up Alistair. Through everything, the six of us will stand by you."

Alistair at last grants her a small smile. "Has anyone ever told you how sweet you are? No? After receiving a total beatdown from Morrigan, it is good to hear your voice. Duncan chose a kind soul in you."

Dulcia returns his smile. "And before you get the opinion that I'm a perfect angel, I should remind you that Hannon does not call me Asha'nan, Lady Revenge, for nothing. Loghain will pay for this. If he thinks he can get away with butchering the King and leaving Ferelden to the mercy of the Blight, he has yet to meet my blade. When we're through with him, he'll be on his knees begging for his life, I promise."

"Good. For some reason the prospect of some healthy violence seems to be lifting my spirits. As long as you promise a good showdown complete with a few well-placed puns and a righteous display of what it means to cross the Grey Wardens, I may even be fit enough to speak to Morrigan and her mother about whatever they have in their twisted little minds."

"You have my word, in that case."

Dulcia steps back towards the cabin, but Alistair reaches out to grab her hand for a moment. "Before you go, I wanted to say thank you. You don't have to do this for me. The rest of you would be fine without me being all the way there, but it really means a lot to me that you care enough to speak to me about this."

Dulcia squeezes his hand gratefully. "Of course. Anytime something troubles you, you can always come to me. The Maker does not give us burdens so we can carry them alone."

"No. And I'm glad He saw fit to save you and keep you here," Alistair says, holding her eyes in his own. "After losing so much in one night, it makes me happy that He at least had one gift to spare."

0o0o0o0o0

**Coming Up:**The Wardens head off to Lothering to gather supplies, and Britomart meets the young sister Leliana when she heads to Dane's Refuge for drinks. Claiming to be sent by a vision of the Maker, Leliana finds no fast friend in Britomart, a dwarf as anti-Chantry as they come, but not all bitterness leads to hatred and not all disagreements end with bad feelings.


	20. Britomart: Cloistered

**A/N:**Unfortunately for me, break is coming to a close. Part of me wants to go back, but I'm dreading the loss of the bulk of my free time. Oh well! As always, thanks to everyone for the support. I'm always staggered by the amount of love Dulcia gets, and the second runner up for fan favorite so far, Alixire, is up next. Enjoy!

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**Twenty. Britomart: Cloistered.**

Lothering is the first human town Britomart has ever seen, and thus far she is not impressed. She had expected buildings upon buildings, one right after the other, and endless rows of merchants peddling their wares and calling out the day's gossip during slow periods. She had expected organized chaos and scatterbrained tidiness, with the nature of the towns echoing their strange human masters. But something about Lothering reminds her vaguely of the home she'd left behind in Dust Town. There is desperation and poverty around every corner, people begging in the streets, carta-like thugs hunting around with knives to stir up trouble, and, most of all, the feeling of general dissatisfaction with the current situation without a way to leave it.

Britomart rubs her forehead. All she wants is to get underway. Emotions are running high in the group, and she suspects it's their closeness to Ostagar and all the bitterness they had been left with there that keeps them functioning fully. Alistair and Morrigan are butting heads left and right, and Dulcia is constantly stepping in between them to get them to behave and stay in line. The others are all bickering about where they should go next. Hannon, naturally, wants to look for the Dalish, and Arlindria insists they should return to Orzammar before her brother can cause any more trouble for her father. Alixire thinks they should go to the Circle Tower, which is clearly a plot to visit her Templar boyfriend and assure him of her well-being. Alain believes they should go to Redcliffe and see if this Arl Eamon character is a good person, but at least he doesn't prattle on about it and start fights with the others. If they all weren't so occasionally endearing, she'd almost be tempted to bash their heads in.

"I need a drink," she says aloud, thumbing her purse filled with the small stack of coins she'd filched from darkspawn and anyone she didn't like an Ostagar. "I think I saw a tavern around here somewhere. Is human ale any good?"

Everyone shrugs except Dulcia, who gives it a halfhearted endorsement and remarks that though it can be a bit watery depending on where you get it, it has the virtue of being significantly cheap. This is good enough for Britomart. Anything has to be better than what they doled out at Tapster's. Not that she was even supposed to go to the commoner's precious Tapster's, but her long hair served as a cover for her two tattoos whenever it was convenient, and she preferred taking her drink anonymously rather than with her god-awful mother, who usually got violent halfway through the first mug.

"Want to come with?" she asks Arlindria. The others are going to the Chantry for assistance and opportunities to earn coin, if they can find any, but Britomart isn't interested in going anywhere near the humans' religious chapel. Arlindria will probably go out of politeness, but Britomart wants to give her the opportunity to back out if she'd rather not be beset with feral initiates who can't help but try to convert the heathens.

"Sure, why not? I could use the distraction." Britomart notices the hard line of Arlindria's jaw when she says this. She is apparently still feeling guilty over the death of the humans' king, though she has does not mention it anymore. _I guessed what Loghain was, but I did nothing to properly stop him, _she'd said to the group after they set out from the Kocari Wilds. Britomart thinks these thoughts are ridiculous; Arlindria could have done nothing to stop him. She is not the revered and beloved Lady Aeducan on the surface. She is just another unimportant dwarf, with a voice not significant enough to be heeded by the humans.

Dane's Refuge, Lothering's tavern, is squat and rank with the stench of sweaty bodies and stale, alcoholic belches. Britomart immediately feels at home. All it is missing is the raucous sound of boasting ringing in the air, but she and Arlindria can certainly make up for that absence when they have a pint in them.

As Britomart digs through her purse for the money, she hears footsteps creeping up beside Arlindria. _Probably someone who wants to grab her ass_, Britomart thinks wryly, remembering the days when Lady Aeducan was the most sought after woman in Orzammar. _She can take care of herself and bash whatever skulls need to be bashed. We'll be fine. Everyone here is a sodding refugee, anyways. Clingy as tics, but not too harmless._

"Look, men," a man's voice says from behind them. "Look at that thick blonde hair. She's the one we're looking for, eh? The one who betrayed the king at Ostagar."

"I'm afraid who you're looking for is a human man, not a dwarven woman," Arlindria says. Britomart can hear her unsheathing her sword, and she turns around to see what's going on. A band of armed humans have surrounded Lady Aeducan, studying a poster their leader is clutching in his hands that portrays a shoddily drawn dwarf with bright yellow lines shooting out of her head like sunbeams. The dwarf in the picture is standing poised above the word 'WANTED'.

The man thrusts the poster in Arlindria's face. "Human man? Don't play these games with me, dwarf. I know you're a Grey Warden, and we heard about what you did at Ostagar. We don't take to traitors here in Lothering, so we're going to chop of that pretty head of yours and give it as a gift for Loghain. That'll teach you to betray the king!"

"Gentlemen, what's all this fuss about, hmm?"

A petite and red headed woman wearing a pink vestment with suns on the sleeves approaches the group, stepping between Arlindria and her accusers. Britomart instinctively thinks for a moment that she is very pretty in the same classical way Dulcia is, but more delicate, soft, and alluring. The girl even has a bit of an accent, but she does not know enough about the geography of Thedas to tell where it comes from or what it signifies. Just as she is about to deem this woman the prettiest she's seen on the surface, she recognizes the emblems on her dress as the sign of the Maker. A Chantry robe. Instantly her opinion of the woman falls back to disfavor, and she steps forward in case Arlindria needs protection from her as well as the accusatory men.

"These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge," the woman continues, pulling the poster from the man's hands. "And this drawing is no indication of anything. It looks like a child drew it, and an incompetent one at that. Surely Loghain could do better."

"Dwarven refugees? Forgive me for being suspicious, especially since Loghain was clear that two of the Wardens unaccounted for were dwarven women, one with a whole bush of blonde hair. Sister or no, if you insist on sheltering traitors, you'll get the same as them."

"What are you even talking about?" Britomart barks. "What business does Loghain have trying to account for us and throwing these posters about?"

The sister turns to Britomart, fixing on her with clear blue eyes. "Loghain has blamed the defeat at Ostagar on the Grey Wardens. Haven't you heard?"

"That's a load of nug shit. Loghain turned his back on the king and left him to die. We witnessed it ourselves."

The human man pulls out his sword and raises it into the air. "So you will add slander to murder? Men! Capture the Wardens and kill anyone else who gets in our way. For Teryn Loghain!"

"Too bad we have no mercy for lying bastards!" Britomart pulls out her daggers and prepares for attack, but before she can even get her thoughts in order, the Chantry sister maneuvers around the group and plants her blades in their backs and twists them. The men cry out in agony, and Arlindria pummels them with her shield, knocking them to their backs and slicing them open with her sword.

Their leader is the only one who managed to dodge the two women, so Britomart launches on to him, pressing her dagger against his neck and toppling him onto his back.

"Enough!" he screams, thrashing like a nug caught in a trap. "I'll surrender! I'll do whatever you want!"

_Wimp_, Britomart thinks to herself. _That sure didn't take long_. "The only thing keeping me from killing you right now," she says, "is that I want to get a word to Loghain. Think you could do that for me?" She inches her blade a little across his neck, drawing a line of blood. "Or else we could make this a little messier, if you'd like."

"No! No! What do you want me to tell him?"

"We know what he did at Ostagar, and we're all looking for the opportunity to make him pay for it. We're coming for him."

"Fine. I'll go. Just get off me, and I'll leave."

Britomart laugh and slides off his chest. "Fair enough. Next time we see you, don't expect to be so lucky. I'd stay far away if I were you." She turns to Arlindria. "No scratches, my lady? Everything in working order?"

"Yes, thanks to that woman's handiwork. I wasn't expecting us to do so well in an ambush."

"Neither did I." Britomart studies the Sister skeptically. "Are you sure you're from the Chantry? In my experience, Sisters only preach and rarely get themselves involved in the messy work."

"I wasn't born in the Chantry you know," the woman says, wiping her daggers. "Many of us had more colorful lives before we joined. Mine simply happened to include a bit of battle training, which I must add certainly assisted you." She sticks out a hand. "Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters here in Lothering. Or I was."

"Oh good," Britomart says, pumping her soft and delicate hand. "I'm glad you're not anymore. I came here for drinks, not a lecture on the virtues of your god. I am Britomart, and this is Arlindria, Princess of Orzammar."

"And they said you were Grey Wardens, no? Then it is your duty to halt this Blight upon Ferelden. You will need all the help you can get, so I will come along with you."

Britomart lifts an eyebrow, surprised at this abrupt change of subject. "You're joking around right? We're not embarking on some darkspawn destroying picnic We've already almost died a handful of times since becoming Wardens. Not that we were exactly comfortably safe before we were recruited." Britomart places her hands on her hips. "Unless you have some freaky religious reason for wanting to come along. In that case, you can sod off. Britomart and I revere our ancestors, and you'll find no weak kneed convert among us."

"You misunderstand me," Leliana says, looking somewhat hurt. "The Maker does wish me to go with you, but His reasons are not to force you to see His holy light."

"You can't talk to the Maker," Arlindria objects. "My father says that your people believe he abandoned you when your prophet died, and that no one has heard his voice since she last heard it."

"But I swear it's true. I had a dream! A vision!" Leliana begins pacing in agitation, wringing her hands. Britomart notices that her eyes grow wider when she is upset, drawing attention to their exquisite color. It is a pretty sight, but she quickly dismisses it. It doesn't matter what this girl looks like. She is oozing her stupid Maker with everything she says, and even if she doesn't mean to convert them, she certainly means to make Him an essential part of their mission.

"This suffering… this chaos," Leliana continues, throwing her arms open wide to encompass the refugees in the tavern. "The Maker does not want this. This Blight is horrible, and with every death, His sadness grows. Even if you do not believe, your duty of destroying the darkspawn is the Maker's work. Please let me help you."

"No," Britomart says, stubbornly folding her arms across her chest. "The Maker has no place in this. We can take care of it on our own."

"But the offer of help is tempting," Arlindria whispers to Britomart. "We aren't exactly in the best of circumstances right now, and we could use an extra blade at our side."

"As if we need another voice to add itself to arguing fools in our number. How do you think Hannon would feel about this? The Chantry took land away from his people all because they felt their god was more important than his and because they had the sodding self-righteousness to do it. And Alixire? Locked away in the tower and made to believe she's the Maker's personal pariah!"

Leliana bows her hand, suddenly looking very solemn. "It is not my place to judge you or your gods. Others may be like that, but I am not. It is only my wish to keep Ferelden safe. Surely that we can agree on."

"I don't think she will make trouble for Hannon and Alixire," Arlindria agrees. "Religion is a touchy subject, but as long as she keeps quiet about it, I don't see why we can't have her along. I know Dulcia, Alistair, and Alain would agree without hesitation, although I don't think even they would be so certain about this whole vision thing. You cannot claim your god is gone in one breath and insist he speaks to you in visions in another. Gods should not be as fickle as that."

"Fine, my lady." Britomart snorts derisively, turning her back on the two of them. "But if I hear any preaching out of her, she's going back to where she came." She tosses her coin in front of the barkeep and asks for ale. She takes a large gulp and swallows. It tastes excellent and rich, unlike the dirt they serve in Orzammar. She feels a pang of homesickness. She suddenly feels far away from everything she is familiar with, both good and bad.

"I hope I will earn your trust one day, Britomart," Leliana says, her voice heavy as if Britomart's rejection of her is a significant blow. "Not everything you've heard about the Chantry is true. There may be no chance of you ever loving the Maker, but I at least want you to feel His light of goodness and mercy working through me."

"Small chance of that," Britomart says, taking another sip of her drink. She feels her throat closing up painfully. Rica would be so ashamed. Here she is still acting like a horrible person, still making the kind, sweet, and pretty girls cry just like she always had with her sister. Rica had called it 'putting up your armor,' and perhaps she is right about that. She doesn't want to be touched, not by anyone. She is a deviant, a disease, a Brand, and she is worthy of no light of goodness and mercy reaching her heart. Perhaps she is like Arlindria and her endless feelings of guilt about Cailan and Trian. Maybe a part of her enjoys keeping herself separate with misery so no one comes close enough to discover who she really is.

Suddenly she slams her mug down onto the counter, sloshing the ale into a puddle for the bartender to clean up. _Putting up my armor? Pah_, she thinks. _Trust Rica to put too much into it. I'm being a bitch, just as Leske or Beraht would say. That's what I am. It goes no deeper than that. This Leliana isn't going to get anything more out of me, whether her Maker is on her side or not._

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**Coming Up:**Alixire witnesses her first Chantry outside of the Circle Tower, and struggles with matters of faith and magic. Is the Chantry right or wrong about their treatment of mages? And what part does she play in the conflict, given her conflicting hatred of the structure of the Circle and love for the kind of man who best embodies her restriction?


	21. Alixire: Hand of the Chantry

**A/N:**Although I've always planned to write this chapter, I have to say that I'm so glad that I played DA2 before I did! So much in that game echoes what I think a mage warden like Alixire would have to contend with, and it really resonated with my own ideas of the in-game portrayal of the Chantry. But luckily I don't think Alixire is quite at the point where she feels the need to blow things up to make her point. Let's hope she stays that way! Enjoy!

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**Twenty-One. Alixire: Hand of the Chantry.**

She can feel their eyes upon her as soon as she walks through the doors. It is a feeling she is especially attuned to, given what she is. As soon as people see the staff hooked onto her back, the very atmosphere of the room changes. Conversations halt, and eyes size her up, searching for signs of danger in her all too innocent face. They wonder why she is here. They are supposed to be protected from people like her, and suddenly they don't feel safe, even within the walls of the Chantry. Even with the darkspawn threat on their heels, she is the more imminent concern.

"You all right?" Hannon asks, placing a hand on Alixire's shoulder. He's been attracting stares as well—due to the tattoo, Alixire suspects, because no one seems to pay Alain any mind—along with Morrigan, whose questionable getup would raise anyone's eyebrows, regardless if she is a mage or not. But neither Morrigan nor Hannon seem to be bothered by the wary gazes. In fact, they seem to enjoy it. They share conspiratorial smirks over the priests droning their Chant of Light and chuckle at the naïve belief that stating these words will save them from the darkspawn more effectively than running for their lives will. But they are different from Alixire. She was raised to believe in the Maker; they were not. They have other beliefs and philosophies to fall back on, but she has nothing else other than these bitter feelings of being a rebellious child estranged from her unloving parent. She can't bear Him, but all the same, she cannot deny Him. She is of His flesh, and that is not something you can erase simply by wishing it isn't true.

"I'm fine," she says, although he is sharp enough to know that she is lying. But the thing she likes about Hannon is that he knows which points not to press. He'll ask her about her training at the Circle all day long if she lets him, but the moment it shifts to a deeper place than she is willing to go, he'll let her be. He knows there is only one person she can speak of these things with, and he is not here. And the loss of him sits like a weight on her heart: a weight of guilt, of sorrow, of longing.

"I just need a moment," she adds, drawing away from the rest of the group slightly. "I don't think I want to see the Revered Mother with the rest of you."

"Are you sure, lethallin? I have a few good questions for her about our missing Dales. You might not want to miss this."

"I thought we were supposed to be addressing her about the Qunari prisoner?"

"The rest of them may, but I have my own way of doing things. But you know this, right?"

"Of course you have your own way. Of course you do. And I'll be listening in the other room and laughing right along with you."

The back of the chapel contains a statue of Andraste, the standard one most Chantries seem to have of a beautiful, well-shaped young woman with some triangular headdress sprouting from her forehead. When she was younger, Alixire thought this was the tool she used to communicate with the Maker. She even tried to break if off the statue once so she could use it herself to ask Him why He had taken her away from her parents. Her parents had been loving and kind, and they had devoted everything to making her happy. As excited as she had been over all the possibilities of her magic, she wondered what she had done to deserve losing her family and being foisted upon these new and strange ideas that didn't seem to have anything to do with her. Maleficar, abomination, demon, spirit… the more she learned of these words, the stranger she felt. She knew herself well; she knew she would never condone interfering with these things. But still she was condemned because they existed. She was condemned for crimes she had never committed.

Sometimes, if she thinks about it hard enough, she can remember her mother's voice. _Alixire, my little light_. _Alixire, my sunshine_. Those were such kind words, such beautiful things to hear. Her mother used to adore the way she was always laughing and teasing everyone, behaving like a little rascal with all the good intentions and warmth of a ray of sun. It wasn't like that in the tower. Everyone hushed her in her lessons and in the Chantry, accusing her of being disruptive and crude. Only Jowan and Irving humored her regularly, and even they fretted after her sharp tongue. "You'll end up getting cut on that thing, child," Irving said. And she did, frequently. Her track record with the Templars and Knight-Commander proved that well.

But then there was Cullen. For the first time, someone was in awe of her for something other than her talents. For the first time since she left the Amell estate, someone lived for the sound of her laughter, for the way she remained buoyant through everything, even though her heart hurt with emptiness in her chest when she realized even though he loved her and she loved him, the Circle would do everything it could to make sure nothing ever came of it. She couldn't be anyone's light and sunshine but the Maker's, and even He would never love her properly as long as she was a mage.

Alixire kneels before the statue of Andraste and rests her forehead against the cool stone. _If you can hear me, tell your Husband that I am the same as you were. I love someone who is so far from my reach that all I can do is stare up at them and wonder how to get to where they are. Why must I be punished? I wasn't the one who killed you. I'm not anyone you should fear._

In the other room, she can hear the Chant rising over her thoughts. These are words she is unfamiliar with. _Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lie eternity_. She doesn't remember such words of comfort from the Circle Chantry. Maybe because they are exempt from this promise. All they need concern themselves with is that they are on the brink of becoming maleficars. Or entering into maleficardom, as Jowan called it, most likely before he realized he was truly on his way to becoming one himself.

And above the Chant, she can hear Hannon's voice. "Tithe to the Chantry? Are you joking shemlen? You want me to give my money to support those who enslave my people? Should I put the whips to their backs myself?" His voice is cool and collected, but mocking. He has waited so long to say this. She is proud of him, but sorrowed, too. This is nothing the Chantry hasn't heard already before. They have witnessed their sins told by voices more powerful than his, and still they have not changed.

Alixire laughs bitterly to herself until tears run down her cheeks. Why does this even matter to her? The Maker isn't a part of her life; His loss means nothing, because she was never aware that she ever had Him. She should be like Hannon. She should tell the self-righteous mothers and priests and sisters what they did to her and ask for repayment. She should let them know how wrong they are.

_But no,_she reminds herself. _Not all of them are wrong. Some of them just don't understand. Some of them will learn with time._The fact that Cullen loves her means something. It has to. It has to indicate that a bridge can be built between the opposition, and some sort of compromise can be reached.

Brushing away her tears, she smiles again and reaches up for Andraste's headdress. This place is going to the darkspawn anyways, and she thinks the prophet would rather have herself defaced by something other than the taint. With the help of magic, it snaps off easily in her hands. She tucks it into her pouch and rises to join the others.

It matters to her. She can't pretend it doesn't. But perhaps it is somehow in her hands to fix the twisted way things are. Perhaps one day Andraste and the Maker will hear her voice and realize that there are people in the world who won't take their way, their silence, as an answer.

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**Coming Up:**On the way out of Lothering, the Wardens face the blade of a hired assassin that Loghain has sent to silence them for good. Alain isn't sure what to make of this flirtatious and potentially dangerous rouge, but something tells him that this may be the spark of interest he has been waiting for all this time.


	22. Alain: Meeting the Rogue

**A/N:**Hmm... Alain seems to be rising the ranks of my favorite characters. I enjoy writing him because he likes to think more than talk, and I enjoy a little bit of good natured introspection. Anyways, please forgive me for my canon-altering in allowing Zevran to meet the Wardens before an official main plot quest has been completed. Let's just say Loghain got around to hiring him early... for some reason or another. Enjoy!

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**Twenty-two. Alain: Meeting the Rogue.**

Alain's mother told him once, back in the days when he was her little warrior in training, that it is always a mistake to put complete faith in the charms of a woman. _"And that includes me," she said, gently buffing him on the chin. "Do you know why? We are master manipulators. We think we have men in the palm of our hands, and we use that to our advantage whenever we can. No one suspects a weak kneed, wailing beauty of crying wolf, do they? Or thinks a sweet blue eyed maiden is capable of robbing a man blind, of more than just his money?"_

But Alain has always been one to suspect a person of being capable of anything, regardless of appearance. He realizes his own fragile looks have deceived many in the past, as had his mother's, and that even the people in this ragtag group of Grey Wardens defy what they seem to be. So when the blonde human woman, artfully disheveled and her eyes glinting with a familiar mischievous light, approaches their company, he does not even have to draw up his mother's old warning before instinctively doubting her. He is on his guard almost instantly, standing in between her and the others as she shrieks about her attacked caravan as if to protect them each from her deceit.

As the woman runs ahead to the location of the alleged skirmish, Alain draws his dual swords and turns to the group. "Trap," he says, nodding to the road ahead of them.

"Hey now, City Boy," Britomart retorts, taking up Hannon's nickname for him. "Detecting traps is my job, last time I checked."

"That's not what I meant. She's lying. That woman."

"And what makes you so sure about that?"

"Ooh, let me guess," Leliana says drily. "Because her mouth is moving, yes?"

"Or because her mouth is too relaxed for someone who is supposed to be scared to death," Alain responds quietly. "She was nearly smirking. But you don't need to believe me. I can take care of this own my own if you need me to."

"No, we're with you," Dulcia says, stepping up behind him. "I'm not about to trust everyone we happen to run into either. Not with the bounty on our heads. Let's all agree to approach this cautiously, okay?"

They unsheathe their weapons and follow the path the woman indicated. Hannon begins murmuring under his breath as they advance, cataloging their enemies. "Three on the hill to the west. Two on the hill to the east. A fair number waiting for us behind the caravan. Their voices carry on the wind, and I can hear them speaking of ill omens. Of crows."

"The Crows," Leliana whispers back. "They're an assassin group from Antiva. I've heard they're known for always getting the job done, so to speak, which does not bode well for us. Hiring them also costs a king's ransom. It seems you have made a very powerful enemy in someone important."

"Loghain," Alistair grimaces. "So in other words, we need to take care of all of them right now to make sure he doesn't profit from his investment."

"Yes, that would surely be wise. And look, here they come now."

Alain watches as bronze skinned elven man with two Dalish-like tattoos inked on the sides of his face steps out from behind the caravan to stand beside the messenger woman. He is well armed and suited up in finely embellished rogue's armor that seems to suggest a certain amount of prestige. He is the head assassin, Alain guesses. He is the one Loghain specifically hired for this task of defeating the last hope for Ferelden, though for him it must be just another job. All in a day's work for an assassin.

For a moment the rogue locks eyes with Alain, the first one among them to reach the caravan. There is no malice in him; just a clear and burning desire to satisfy the terms of this challenging, nearly suicidal mission. Alain understands, in a way, what this man is looking for. Killing off the Wardens for Loghain will probably earn him more coin and respect than he, as an elf, has ever known in his life. He will be looked upon as skilled and unparalleled in strength and ability, which is no small feat for one of their kind. Alain sympathizes with this reason, but it gives him no pleasure to acknowledge it. He only enjoys killing those who have earned their deaths, like Vaughan and the endless number of darkspawn they've encountered, but this man reminds him painfully of himself. He is only doing what he does best, the only thing he knows how to do, in order to survive in a world that is unkind to those born without the leisure of choice.

The elf holds Alain's eyes, his expression unchanging. "The Wardens die here," he says, his foreign voice thick with self-assurance. Even against these numbers, it seems he believes whole-heartedly in his own endurance. But Alain knows better than him. He knows Hannon and Britomart and Arlindria and Dulcia and Alixire, and not a single one of them will hold back in protecting what this assassin threatens. And neither will he, if he can help it. He knows what's at stake, and that Ferelden is worth much more than the life of a single misguided man. But all the same, it burdens him. And burdens, as his mother would say, aren't things you want to carry with you in battle.

The assassins quickly surround the company, but Alain slips away, brushing aside their blades and marching directly towards the caravan. He is not at all subtle (_"A man is not deceitful like a woman. He sees what he wants and makes it is his without games or lies to subdue it")_, and the elf seems to anticipate his arrival alone before him. The edges of his lips rise into a delighted smile as if he is greeting an old friend, and he bows his head slightly before raising his blade. Alain bows back in return. In a strange way, he enjoys this dance between them. It is seems deliberate, and to a certain degree even fated. They have chosen each other, out of all the others, for the similar feeling that lingers in their eyes, the pressing want to succeed, to be more than what they were born to be.

Their blades clash together, both hard and resolute, both unrelenting. It is a fierce battle, but Alain is aware of his own strength. He can see how the assassin's heels dig into the dirt as he strains to fight him off, and how little the uncertain ground can stand underneath the pressure. He is at an advantage here, as long as he does not allow his weaknesses to show. If his adversary knew how hesitant he feels about making a killing blow, the battle would change its course against him, and his compassion—so earnestly and foolishly meant—would be his downfall.

As soon as he sees his advantage, he presses it. He plunges his blade further against the other elf's until he struggles with his footing, slipping on the insubstantial dirt. As he stumbles, Alain twists his blade and slams the pommel into his chest, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him onto his back. Without thinking, he follows the next natural steps of this dance, leaning over the rogue's body and holding one blade at his throat and the other at his chest. But before he makes the final slash, the one he performed so thoughtlessly over these past few months, he pauses. He wonders for a moment why he should be driven to kill someone who has managed to speak to something within him without saying a word. Hadn't Duncan and Dulcia spared him based on the sort of faith only instinct could give them? And why throw away another man's life if he could return the precious gift he had been given by strangers to someone he felt—however inexplicably—deserved it?

He leans forward and hovers his lips over the man's ear. "Your life belongs to me now," he whispers fiercely, knowing that these words will go unheard by deaf ears that will keep his secret weakness safe. "Remember that."

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When the elf wakes again, his eyes flicker in confusion as he studies the many faces gazing coolly down at him. He lingers on Arlindria for a moment and a spark of recognition crosses his face, but it is not until he at last fixes on Alain that he seems to remember where he is and what a blessing it is that he has managed to survive his spectacular failure of an assassination attempt.

"So you did not kill me then," he says in a weary voice, pressing his hand against the place where Alain had slammed him with his blade. "I thought you would. You fight without mercy, my friend, so it is a wonder you have shown me some now."

"The rest of us are wondering about that, too," Alistair says a bit curtly, folding his arms across his chest. "The only use you could have for us would be to confirm that Loghain was the one that hired you."

"Oh, how cold of you. But as you were not the one to spare my life, I would rather hear any questions you may have from the one who did. Clearly he had reasons, and is more… predisposed to listen." He winks at Alain, who nearly chokes in response. "But since you seem in a hurry and eager to get on with whatever I interrupted, I will go straight to the point. I am Zevran Arianai, a member of the Antivan Crows brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any remaining Wardens for this Loghain you speak of. Rest assured, had I known you would be so capable, I may have been much less enthusiastic about accepting the contract for you. Although I suppose there are worse things in life than falling into such capable hands, now that I think on it."

"You should go," Alain suggests, turning his face away in embarrassment. If he didn't know any better, he would be convinced that this Zevran character is flirting with him. He is somewhat familiar with this sort of intimate tone from girls in the Alienage who figured he would enjoy their attentions, but it doesn't quite make sense coming from the mouth of a man. To assuage his confusion, he assures himself that it's some sort of joke meant to make him feel foolish. If this sort of thing was a possibility, surely he would have heard of it before. Surely he would know what to do with these pointed and appreciative stares that, though they occasionally travel to the more appropriate faces of the assembled women, always find a way back to him.

"You should go," he says again, more clearly this time. "I may have spared you, but I don't think the others will if you stay here."

"And you will send me off just like that? I was wrong about your friend, in that case. You are the truly cold one. You save me just to send me off to face death at the hands of the Crows? They do not take kindly to failures among their ranks, my Grey Warden. If they find out what happened here, it will be my head on a platter, and then they will again go for yours."

"And what do you expect him or anyone else to do about it?" Arlindria asks. "You tried to kill us! We can't just let you go!"

"Oh, and you think I would be so foolish to try to kill you again after what happened the first time? I can't speak for the rest of you, but your elven friend is no easy person to assassinate. I say this from experience, of course. I have killed many men, some twice as large as he, but never have I been taken down so efficiently by a target. It is only natural that when I find people who are strong and royally hard to kill I consider the possibility of aligning myself with them, no?" He turns his gaze back to Alain. "Clearly it is you who I must address this to. You are very ruthless, but still forgiving, I think."

"I might be," Alain says.

"Not terribly forthcoming, but still, I know someone open to reason when I see one. As I have already said, the Crows are bound to kill me if you don't. So let me serve you instead."

"Do you think he's stupid?" Alixire asks.

"Well, I think he's handsome and a bit on the utterly and demonically powerful side, but stupid? Not at all. Forgive me for hoping for a bit of consideration from someone who has already spared me once without much provocation."

Alain touches his hand to his face in alarm. _Handsome?_ Now he is even more certain this is a joke. This Zevran is treating him like a woman for a laugh, maybe for the purpose of deceiving him and convincing him to make a foolish decision for his own benefit. But to his surprise, Alain's heart feels a strange burst of pain at this thought. He doesn't want to be trifled with. He doesn't want it to be a joke, even though he doesn't quite understand what it even is. All his life, he has been waiting for something to shake him, to upend his low and bitter opinion of the world that had murdered his mother and placed him in a situation where he is trapped in the confines of what he is supposed to be to his people, a carbon copy elf with no wishes of his own, a stranger to himself and his own desires. Something about Zevran, as uncertain as he is, seems ready to serve as a challenge. Already he has made Alain question his judgment more than he has ever been accustomed to, and already he has slightly stirred a pulse which has always been used to stagnation.

"Okay," Alain says suddenly. It may be a joke, or it may not. The least he can do for himself is wait out its telling and see if it will stir him further or still keep him cold. He has nothing to lose, in any case. Only something to gain if he can learn a little about himself and discover what knowledge he has cut himself off from after his mother had died and left him to remold himself in the image of the Alienage.

"You're going to unleash a viper among us?" Morrigan asks, incredulously. "I expect such nonsense from Alistair, but hardly from you. Are you asking us to be poisoned?"

"As much as I hate to say it, I'm with Morrigan," Alistair groans. "Surely you can't expect the rest of us to go along with this! It's madness."

"And if it's the madness he's chosen, so be it," Arlindria interjects. "We've all shared the responsibilities of making unwelcome choices. Alistair, you were the one to choose Redcliffe as our first destination. I was the one to welcome Leliana among us, and Dulcia and Hannon chose to rescue Sten from the darkspawn. Now, who are you to say Alain is not allowed to make his own decision? He has proven intelligent and reasonable before, and I for one am happy to trust in him. And I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking so."

"I'll stand behind him, of course," Dulcia says.

"And I. He is a just person, and he would not do this without reason," Alixire says.

"Elves are not often given this sort of freedom to choose between one thing or another," Hannon adds. "I say, let City Boy have it."

"And he has my word that I will be his man without reservation." Zevran takes Alain's hand to help himself to his feet. "My life is his, after all. That is not a debt one easily forgets."

"O-of course," Alain says, his voice sounding different and foreign to his ears. He feels as if he knows nothing anymore. Nothing but the fact that something important is happening to him, and that something buried in that curled smile and those inviting eyes will redefine what little of himself he knows, what scant and incomplete information he has gathered from the life that never quite fit him or the heart that as yet beats to an unknown and undefinable tune.

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**Coming Up:** Morrigan and Hannon exchange tales of their unconventional childhood, and Morrigan uncovers some of Hannon's surprising insecurities with his elven identity and duties to the Dalish clan


	23. Hannon: Wild Tales

**A/N:** For some reason, I was really looking forward to writing this chapter in particular. For one, Hannon is always particularly entertaining to write, but I also enjoy the history of Dalish tattoos as given by the codex. Although it's not readily apparent, I immediately started drawing comparisons between the tattoos and the city elf wedding ceremony. I also noticed that the tattoo I chose for Hannon was a bit more subdue than the what the rest of the clan had (i.e. writing all over their entire face), so I put all of these elements together for this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

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**Twenty-Three. Hannon: Wild Tales.**

"So, Morrigan," Hannon says as they make their way down the Imperial Highway towards Redcliffe. "Do you have any good stories about what living in the Wilds was like?"

Though Morrigan hasn't looked inclined to speak yet, he thinks this is a fair and relatively safe question to broach. All the others are in remarkably high spirits for once given that their chances of success look brighter every minute the further they get from Ostagar and the more additional blades they recruit, but Morrigan keeps as aloof as ever to the excitement around her. As for Hannon, he has been thoroughly entertained by the excess of conversation since the subject of the day has revolved around storytelling, his particular forte and interest. He's listened eagerly and thrown in his own handfuls of questions to the discussions of the Qun and Qunari government between Arlindria and Sten, Zevran and Leliana's explanations of the complex assassin and spy network in their home countries, and Dulcia's lively tale of how she came to own her Mabari, Rolf. But all the same, the things Hannon truly wants to hear of can only come from his one unforthcoming companion, who has pointedly ignored the swirl of stories exchanged between them and remained in her own reclusive world. But Tamlen didn't call him Hannon-who-hates-to-lose for nothing; when he puts his mind to it, he is capable of drawing anything from anyone given enough time.

"Oh, so you wish me to join in your little party now?" Morrigan says coolly, shooting him a glare that would have easily silenced anyone else. "I don't probe you for pointless information, do I?"

"But you can," Hannon laughs. "I would be happy to let someone like you probe me any time."

"Beg pardon, then, while I jump for joy," Morrigan says, though Hannon can see a smile unwittingly creeping up on her face. "Since the question came from you, I imagine you wish to hear me speak of my mother, though I believe I already shared the legend of her rise to power when you first asked for it about two seconds after I joined your company. Perhaps you would like to hear of her in her role of being a mother, then? Such as it is."

"I want to hear what you want to talk about. Anything you like will interest me."

"Even if I choose to talk about my mother's alleged sexual escapades over the years? There are many, and I have heard them in great detail."

"I am a man, you realize. It would be a bit odd if I was adverse to hearing about that."

"Truly?" Morrigan studies him carefully, as if she does not believe him. "Twas my impression that you fancied my mother for yourself. You do not bother to even hide your obsession."

"My obsession is all admiration and reverence, of course. I'm not interested in involving myself with that much of an older woman. That sort of business is much too serious for someone like me."

"Indeed? My mother has bedded serious men and childish men alike. Someone as in awe of her as you are is always to her tastes, so I suggest you be less engaging when you see her next unless you do truly wish to be involved. I assume you are aware that the moment she has her hands on you, that would be the last the world would ever see of you."

Hannon shrugs, deciding not to bother to repeat his disinterest in going down in history as a mark of Asha'belannar's bed post. "I hope you are kinder to the men you see," he says instead, testing his luck.

"Depends," she replies, laughing. "Ones that ask too many questions may not be fortunate enough to see the light of day, for the sake of my sanity. But I suppose I will humor you today. Living in the Wilds, you said? Well…"

Without any further stalling, she begins to speak at length of her younger years in the Wilds. She speaks of learning the art of shape shifting, of frolicking the forest as a wolf and flying through the sky as a bird, of playing games with the Templars that came to arrest her mother and herself as apostates. And then, with a softer tone, she speaks of leaving the Wilds to explore the world of men on her own, surviving on her own wits.

"I was usually free of suspicion as a Witch of the Wilds there," she says, her eyes glancing at the scenery distantly, as if she if in a far off place in her thoughts. "I mimicked their dress when I could, and most who knew of the Chasind legends did not except a Witch of the Wilds to resemble a fairly normal young woman, such as I looked. Your people may have known who I was, but I never interacted with the Dalish much in my travels. I may have been the daughter of Asha'belannar, but I still appeared very much human, and would rather not risk the possibility of arrows in neck for straying too close to the camp."

"Very wise of you."

"I did my best to adapt, but there was much about human society that puzzled me. Like the touching. Why all the touching?"

"I cannot speak for the shemlen," Hannon says, "but my own people touch as a sign of unity and intimacy. It is a mark of brotherhood, of being one with the clan."

"And there you have it. A touch means something different depending on who is exchanging it. These are nuances I will never understand, and often I do not even wish to. My life in the Wilds was suited to me, and when I returned, I swore I would never leave it again."

"But here you are."

"Indeed. Here I am." Morrigan's mouth turns down in a frown, but she sighs and brushes it away. "Now, I've a question for you, if I may. My mother always enjoyed talking of your people since they have long earned her respect, but there is much about you I am not familiar with. I have often wondered what the significance behind the tattoos the Dalish mark themselves with is. I assumed it was a sign to set yourselves apart from the elves in the city, but if that is the case, I wonder why your tattoo seems smaller and less prominent than those I am used to seeing. You were born a member of the clan, were you not?"

"Yes I was. So perhaps mine is smaller because I do not have to over compensate for anything?"

She laughs. "Now there's a thought. But I do doubt based on the expression you are wearing that it is the only reason you have."

"And you would be correct. These tattoos are called vallasin, and they are indeed meant to set us apart from shemlen and the elves who have forgotten. The ritual is very important to us, and it is a sign of weakness to cry out in pain when you are being inked. The gods do not favor those who think this slight physical pain is comparable to what real pain our people have suffered. But first and foremost, vallasin is a rite of passage into adulthood. The elves in the city have weddings for this purpose, but we Dalish receive our markings."

"Weddings, you say?" She glances over at Alain, who has broken his typical silence to share a story of his mother with Zevran. "So our seemingly pure Alain is in actuality someone's husband?"

"He would be, but his wedding was interrupted by shemlen, or so the story goes. He got out of it, in any case. I suppose becoming a Grey Warden elevated him to adulthood without the need to get married." Hannon pauses for a moment, wondering if he should continue with his own opinions, or if she would even care to hear what he thinks. There is something in her expression that seems more open than usual, and he imagines she wouldn't have bothered asking him if she wasn't interested in whatever he has to say on the matter.

"In the end, our different rituals have the same conclusion," Hannon says finally, "and it isn't just becoming adult. That's what they tell us it means, but that is not it. In truth, it's meant to chain us to our duties. Accepting this tattoo means that I am a full member of my clan, one who is obligated to carry on the ways in every aspect of my life. If not for becoming a Grey Warden, I would have married a woman in my tribe and fathered as many children as physically possible. Carrying on the Dalish tradition so there are not vastly more shemlen than us is a foremost concern of ours, and it is a valid concern if you consider it. But where is the choice in the matter? Where is the moment we can say, yes, I care for this clan more than anything, it is my heart and soul, but what of what _I_ want with my life? Should I do something that makes me miserable to give everyone else happiness?"

Like Morrigan, his eyes stray over to Alain. "You see that look in his eyes sometimes, don't you? It is no wonder to me that he is not given to be open or overly knowledgeable of who he is and what he wants to do with this freedom we have been given. I don't even know myself sometimes. Who we are has been ingrained in our heads since we were children. We are elves. We are members of our community. We are meant to help our people survive against the threat of humans. But what else? If it was entirely up to us, what would we have done for ourselves?"

"A good question," Morrigan murmurs. "But perhaps you are not the only two to ask it. We all have burdens such as yours. I could forever ask what I would do with my freedom if it were not dictated by Flemeth. I do wonder, but it does not trouble me overmuch. I have consented to my life, just as you consented to your markings."

"True. I am happiest with my clan, and with my own people. I do not think I would have chosen otherwise for the most part. But to have the choice to stay with them and yet live on my own terms? That is a power I have never had before. It is something that would have made me happier to be Dalish, and prouder to have accepted this tattoo as more than just a contract to be a proper elf." He presses his fingers against the marking, the circular design around his eye shaped like an Orlesian carnival mask. "I think that is why I chose a design so small. To remind me that, yes, one eye will see as a Dalish, but the other will see as Hannon, who has his own ideas of how things should be."

"I see," Morrigan says, nodding in understanding. "To be honest, I would not have expected such words from you. But tis the nature of people to question, even if they arrive at the answer they originally had. I suspect that is why many of us are here. But you, I thought you were here only to ask questions of others, and not yourself."

"Why should I neglect myself?" Hannon asks, laughing. "I give such charming answers, you know."

"Indeed. Now, I suggest we stop probing each other and continue on. If I encourage you, you will not silence until night fall, and most likely keep on talking anyways."

"If that is your wish. But rest assured, I am far from finished with you, daughter of Asha'belannar."

Morrigan smiles at him enigmatically. "I know. And do not think I am finished with you either, elf. Like my mother, when I have someone on my hook, it is never in my interest to allow them to go. You should recall that before you use your new freedom to make a choice far beyond anything you have ever dreamed of before."

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**Coming Up:**Upon arriving in Redcliffe, Alistair shares a carefully hidden secret with Dulcia that has the potential of changing the course of their lives forever.


	24. Dulcia: The Princeling

**A/N: **Another Dulcia chapter! Time for Alistair to spill his secrets about cheese and his hair... and a little something else he's been keeping from his favorite new Warden. Enjoy!

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**Twenty-Four. Dulcia: The Princeling.**

Dulcia has only been to Redcliffe once before to her knowledge. She was four years old at the time, a curly haired and freckled hellion with charm enough to sway the allegiance of anyone she chose, coupled with, as her mother often fondly told her, the manners and the grace of a Chasind barbarian. She does not remember if she was introduced to Arl Eamon and his pretty Orlesian wife, or how she occupied herself at the castle while her parents concerned themselves with politics and maintaining close ties with their most essential allies. She does not remember, no matter how often she dwells on it now, if she crossed the path of a young Alistair as he sulked about the hallways, brooding over his unwelcome situation and alienation in that house. She is almost glad of the fact that they met at Ostagar as strangers, even if their eyes had once crossed in the distant past. Dulcia was careless in those days; she possessed so much that she took for granted, and was prone to tarnishing and breaking whatever she touched. He would not have been safe from her, back then. He would have become a second Dairren following in her wake, and she would have taken blindly from him, sating her want to know more, to feel more, but sparing him nothing in return besides the façade of her interest.

But now, now she thinks she is different, more prepared to know someone like him. She has lost enough to know how to treat things gently, like the precious treasures they are, and to give more of herself rather than remaining coolly detached and entirely self-serving. She is not so important anymore; the vulnerable world at the fingertips of the darkspawn is, and so is he, in his way. Though he hides behind his sweet-natured jokes, Alistair is at his core a lost soul silently crying out to her, asking for guidance because she has been where he has been and knows how loneliness and isolation can poison even the gentlest of hearts.

"Ah, the smell of fish," Alistair says as the village comes into view beneath the high cliffs they have been climbing. "It still haunts me sometimes. If you live here for long enough, it never goes away."

"I remember it, too," Dulcia says, wrinkling her nose. "In fact, it's my most vivid memory of this place. The smell of fish and the waters of Lake Calenhad. And the windmill on the hill."

"So you've been here before. Hmm. I wonder if he told your father about…"

"Who told my father about what?" she asks, her curiosity piqued. "Is there something we should know before we proceed?"

Alistair suddenly appears nervous, almost in the way he had looked when they first met and he had done his best to compliment her for her beauty. She wonders what she possibly could have said to elicit such a reaction. He is often instinctively coy around her, more so than he is around the others, but he is never quite like this, his eyes darting around and his hands shaking and clenching slightly as if they are looking for something to latch on to.

"There is something I have to say to you," he says, taking a deep breath. "It's not something I really want to talk about, but you'll find out eventually. And it's better if you hear it from me."

Dulcia considers jokingly asking him about what criminal activities or odd deformities he may possibly be hiding from them, but the nauseated expression on his face makes her think the better of it.

"What is it?" she asks, lowering her voice. The others are all busy conversing amongst themselves or needling each other, as the case often is, but she can tell that this is something he wants to keep between the two of them for the time being. If the chance of their being overheard can be avoided, that will make him all the more willing to confide in her, she thinks.

"I know I told you Arl Eamon was the one who raised me, and that my mother was a serving girl in the castle. But I, er, failed to mention to you who my father was. It wasn't exactly the mystery I made it seem to be. The truth is… my father was King Maric." He winces as the words pass his lips, and looks down at his hands. "Which made Cailan my half-brother, I suppose."

Dulcia takes a moment to process this. King Cailan's son. Illegitimate, but of royal blood all the same. And with Cailan dead, the rightful king of Ferelden given that the Landsmeet would accept his claim to the throne. Now that she thinks of it, Arlindria had mentioned Cailan making a statement that suggested that there was someone of Theirin blood illegible for the throne, although the possibility was not looked on favorably by the King. But never would she have imagined it would be Alistair. He seems so unassuming for someone of such importance, unlike Cailan who had practically shined with glory and youthful nobility. She wonders if Alistair had been raised to be less strikingly alluring, so that Cailan would have his proper place in the spotlight without him slipping into the picture.

"So you're a royal bastard, then?" she finally says, realizing that if she doesn't take some step to lighten the mood, he will probably faint from his overwhelmed nerves. "And here I thought you were just the regular kind."

Alistair's laugh comes out in a squeak. "Cute. I'll have to remember that one. So… you aren't upset with me for not mentioning this sooner?"

"A little confused, perhaps. When you heard I was a Cousland, that would have been the natural time to introduce this matter. We could have compared notes on family history and become friends even faster than we did at Ostagar."

He sighs. "I would have told you sooner, but having royal blood doesn't really mean anything to me. I was taught to stay as far away from the throne as possible so I wouldn't get any ideas about starting a rebellion. It wasn't exactly how you grew up, where there were… expectations and the like. But for the people who knew about me, and there weren't even all that many, it made a difference. They felt the need to coddle me like I really was a prince and not raised a commoner. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because he knew that I had Theirin blood that was too precious to be spilled. That's why I didn't want you to know." He looks down at his feet, his cheeks softly flushing. "When I met you, I liked how strong and unrelenting you were. A lot of people might be wary of that, but it shows that you're unafraid to have your voice heard. I didn't want you to feel the need to stoop to me. You're perfect the way you are, and I didn't want to lose that in you."

"You don't have to worry about things like that," Dulcia says, shaking her head. "Even kings need a good talking to from someone, or their heads will swell up with pride. But I understand your nervousness. Many in my place would take advantage of this information and make you feel uncomfortable about who you are."

Alistair's face nearly collapses in relief. "Good. I'm glad I could trust that to you. I didn't feel right hiding it anymore."

"I'm glad you no longer have to." She glances at him slyly. "Is there anything else I should know, now that we've got this on the table?"

"Hmm. Have I told you yet I love cheese? No? And my hair. I've got a bit of an obsession for it."

"Oh, is that all? But I must ask, of course," she adds carefully, "now that Cailan is dead, have you considered the option in front of you?"

"It's out of the question. I'm no prince, and Arl Eamon is much more suited to the throne than I would ever be. If he's all right, that is." Alistair's forehead wrinkles slightly. "Why? You aren't getting any nefarious ideas are you? As a Cousland, you think I should go for the throne, right?"

"As long as Loghain is sitting on it, it seems to be the reasonable solution. But it is not my place to command you. I only present it to you as something to consider. Loghain has his own foundation of popularity, even with the rumors circling him, but even that cannot stand up to a claim of Theirin blood. And were you to take the throne, you would not be without councilors to assist you. Myself, for example. I know a thing or two about having people whose livelihood depends on your efforts, and it would be an honor to share my knowledge with you, if you will have it."

Alistair smiles hesitantly. "Let's not think on that for now. For the moment, I'd much rather be a nobody too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens."

"And what would make me? And the rest of us?"

"I can't speak for the rest of them. But you? You are the reason I call myself lucky."

"Am I really?"

Now Dulcia's hands are the ones that are shaking, which she can never remember happening to her for this reason. Before, with Dairren, she had only been appreciated on the terms of being a mystery. There had been no need to be afraid of him, because he knew nothing of her weaknesses or the things he may have found unappealing in her had she shown them to him. But Alistair is different. He has seen her halting and unsure, fresh from her wounds at Highever, as well merciless and uncompromising, when Jory had angered her in the Kocari Wilds. He knows the hidden underbelly of her pleasant demeanor, the prickliness and bull-headed tendencies that make her Dulcia rather than some other pretty and stiff laced noble, but still he admires her enough to say that she is the thing that made his survival fortunate. It is such a simple and innocent gesture, but it means more to her than any words the men who have weaved in and out of her life in the past have said for her benefit.

She presses her hand against her heart and smiles. Maybe she hasn't broken it after all. Maybe it is still there, still whole, and, somehow in spite of everything, on its way to healing. But for the first time, this knowledge comes secondary to her. His words are a gift, but the greater reward they give is that he too is on his way to healing, and that when they both make it to the other side of their pain, they will have something complete to give one another rather than the fractured pieces they had always contented themselves with in the days when they were reckless and young. That, over everything else, is what truly gives her peace.

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**Coming Up: **After arriving to find Redcliffe in shambles, Alixire is forced to face up to Jowan and the bitter remnants of their friendship which has been shattered by betrayal.


	25. Alixire: Jowan's Forgiveness

_****_**A/N: **The time has come to meet Jowan again and determine his fate, but Alixire isn't exactly known for her kindness to blood mages. Will their past friendship spare his life, or will she be determined to see justice through to its bitter end? On a little bit of a side note, I would like to take a moment to apologize for any horrifying typos that have appeared in any prior or following chapters. As an English major, I find these to be unforgivable sins on my part! I'm unfortunately in possession at the moment of a cheap-o word program that takes any typo I make (and I am admittedly a pretty pathetic typer) and autocorrects them without informing me that I made an error. Thankfully this hasn't led to anything particularly embarrassing yet, but I still apologize for anything I failed to catch and promise to invest in an actual word processor ASAP! Enjoy!

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**Twenty-Five. Alixire: Jowan's Forgiveness.**

_"You!"_

His voice, as sharp and accusatory as the last time she heard it, is the last thing Alixire expected to hear upon entering into Redcliffe castle. Through everything she has been through over the past few weeks, she has pushed him to the side, putting him in a distant place where she would not dwell on him or puzzle over what evil forces had poisoned him and what she could have done to stop his fall into corruption. She has blotted out this voice from her heart, forcing herself to forget both the good and the evil he has brought upon her in order to spare herself the pain of remembering that he is no longer the foolish boy she knew, but a monster stained by his own blood and the blood of others.

But here he is now, alive and made whole from her shattered fragments of memory. Locked behind bars, his face smudged with dirt and glistening with sweat as if he has been unable to wash himself for days. Isolde's unfortunately shrill voice resounds in her head. _We found the mage responsible for poisoning Eamon and locked him up in the dungeon. _And here he stands before her, the man himself that she had distantly hoped had learned from his past mistakes in the Tower, accused of an even deadlier crime than the one she first held him to.

"Jowan," she whispers, pressing her hands against the cold metal bars caging him in. "How could you?"

"Alixire? How did you get here?" His fingers briefly brush against hers before he sharply draws away, at last seeming to remember her role in their last encounter. "No. Never mind that. I have nothing to say to you."

"Is this the famous lover everyone keeps telling me about?" Zevran asks, tilting his head and studying Jowan's unimpressive form. "I must admit that for you I was expecting some a lot less… scrawny."

"No. I have no such feeling for him," Alixire says, clenching her teeth. "Blood mages and murderers really aren't my type. But we were friends once, in the Tower. At least before he got it into his head to allow such unforgivable evil into his body."

"I know what I have done has shamed me," Jowan replies, lowering his eyes and apparently forgetting his vow not to say anything to her. "In fact, if they've sent you to kill me, you have every right to it. Poisoning the arl… it was a stupid, foolish thing to do. All I wanted was for Loghain to settle things for me with the Tower so I could make it right again, and so you and Lily would not be punished for what I did."

"It's too late for that, Jowan. You were raised in that Tower, just as I was. You know as well as I that the Chantry stoops to no one, not even a powerful man who thinks he is our king. Our fates were sealed from the moment we went into that repository with you, and there's no going back from that moment. By poisoning the arl, all you have achieved is to take away the hope of Ferelden from our hands. And what we witnessed last night outside the castle is so beneath you that I cannot even think of it without being overcome. If what you wish is to repent, why destroy the innocents of Redcliffe with such a foul and forbidden magic?"

"The things coming from the castle aren't from me. All I did was poison the arl as I was bidden to do, but I have not done more."

"What I wish to know is how he even came to be welcome in this castle," Alistair interrupts. "Lady Isolde isn't exactly known for rolling out the welcome mat for strangers, especially unknown apostates roaming the countryside."

"Her son, Connor, was beginning to show signs of magic," Jowan explains. "Loghain knew this, and had me taken from the Templars' custody so that I could become his tutor. I did instruct him on several matters, but at the time I was also… you know. Filling Loghain's orders. As soon as I was discovered, Lady Isolde imprisoned me. I know not what plague infests the castle, but it is not of my making, I swear it. I have been tortured by Lady Isolde and brought to the brink of desperation, but I have nothing else to confess."

"Connor… a mage?" Alistair muses. "That must have been unwelcome news for Lady Isolde. The Templars would have taken him to the Tower regardless of his inheritance. That must have been what drove her to do this."

"More importantly, it gives an explanation to the atrocities we witnessed last night," Alixire ponders. "Untrained magic is a dangerous thing. Children know very little about making deals with demons, and if such a being approached him, he may very well have sundered the Veil to save his father. If so, then these are ill tidings. Freeing a child from possession is no easy feat. It could very well end in his death if this is truly what has befallen him."

"Then I suggest you go upstairs and find him before things get worse," Jowan says gravely. "But I have one thing to ask of you before you do. Tell me… what happened to Lily? Is she all right?"

"She's in the Aeonar. As would I be if Duncan hadn't recruited me for the Grey Wardens. I hope, Jowan, that you understand the consequences of what you've done." Her eyes prickle with tears, which she quickly brushes away. "You were such a very important person to me. I know a part of you never liked me because of the talent I had, but I always, always believed you were capable of great things. But not this, Jowan. Not this. Maker forgive me, but I cannot forgive you this. Not when I remember Lily's face. Not when I think of all the poor souls who weep for Arl Eamon as he dies because of you. If you wanted to do good for us, injuring and taking the life of good men is the last thing you should have thought of. If you want to do right by Lily, you should be in her place in that prison. Not here. Not with Arl Eamon's death precariously close to staining your hands."

Jowan grimaces. "You can say nothing, Alixire, that I have not already told myself before. I don't think you know how often I've turned back time in my head and done things differently. I really loved her, you know. And in spite of what you might think, I really loved you, too. You were the best person up in that Tower. It was no wonder that all the mages and even that Templar adored you. Everyone knew that you had a smile like sunshine, a heart of gold, and a troublesome mouth that could have us laughing for hours or else cringing when you got yourself into trouble. But it was hard on me to be around you. I felt like Maferath standing between Andraste and the Maker. I wanted to be liked, too, but it was always… always you."

"I liked you, Jowan. And Lily did, too. It wasn't the whole world showering affection at your feet, but weren't we enough to make you happy? Wasn't that enough to keep you from straying on the path?" This time when the tears come, she does nothing to stop them. "When the Blight ends, the world will hear about what happens here. Even though Connor is just a child, they'll frown down upon him as a mage for what he did. And you… Jowan, there won't be any more options for you. The Chantry will see this is as a sign they are being too lenient with mages, and when the time comes, it will be your head first."

"I don't care about what happens to me anymore." His fists clench around the bars, his knuckles blanching. "I've never been very important. And as long as you keep safe, everything will be fine. You'll take care of the mages. There's no damage that my blood magic did that you cannot fix. I really believe that, Alixire. So I don't need you to forgive me. Just go do what you have to do."

"Jowan." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "You realize that I can't let you go, don't you?"

"I probably would have demanded mercy from anyone else, but I don't exactly deserve any from you. If you wish to kill me, I understand. I would rather it be you than Lady Isolde or those corpses that have been swarming the castle."

"I'm not going to kill you. Much as you have pained me, I cannot look into the eyes of someone who was a comfort and a friend and then slaughter them as if those times never existed." She bites her lips, considering her options. "If we manage to save Arl Eamon, all of Redcliffe will be in our debt. I can, perhaps, ask a boon of him, and request you be returned to the Tower rather than executed by the people here. I cannot promise you forgiveness at the hands of the Circle, especially if Gregoir puts his foot down as he is known to do, but there is always the prospect of Irving's benevolence or joining Lily in the Aeonar to keep in mind. If you swear to me now never to perform blood magic again or even consider the possibility, I can at least do this much for you."

"You would do that?"

"There's a part of me that bears responsibility for what you did. The thing you envied in me—the love I had from others—was something I took for granted. Aside from Irving and yourself, there was only one other heart I truly desired. I had exactly what you wanted, and still I was not satisfied." She smiles feebly. "I suppose that in its own way is also an unforgivable thing. And I'm sorry."

She turns away from him, gesturing the others to follow her upstairs to the rest of the castle. As they step forward, Hannon places a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she accepts the gesture for a moment before shrugging it off. She has rarely been repentant for the things she has done in her life, but now she wonders if she—with all the admiration she had garnered in the Tower and the loving friends she has encircled herself with here—more than the persecution of the Chantry and the burden of a mage's power, was the one thing that had driven him to this point.

"I forgive you!" he calls after her, his voice trembling and echoing off the walls. Alixire closes her eyes and waits for the comfort of his mercy to wash over her, but it doesn't quite reach her heart. She is not deserving of it yet. Unlike Jowan, if she could turn back time, the first thing she would change would not be anything she has said or done to him. In her heart she knows that her selfishness would time and time again lead her back to the mercy of Cullen, whose forgiveness is still the only one she requires, and still that which she is least likely to receive.

_I really am an unforgivable person, _she thinks to herself, squaring her shoulders. She lets Jowan's words fall to the ground around her and walks steadfastly away from it, never once turning her back.

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**Coming Up:** A conversation between Britomart and Leliana about the ever-popular Lady Isolde leads to a discussion on the charms and excesses of Leliana's beloved Orlais. Although Britomart is as unwilling as ever, will the subject of all the expensive and forbidden things she secretly desired back in Dust Town urge her to open up to the Chantry sister?


	26. Britomart: Lonely Heart

**A/N:**Hey readers! Just a quick head's up about my updating schedule. I try to keep it pretty regular considering the massive amount of material I have to work with, but this upcoming weekend I will be out of town for Ohayocon, and I will need some time to catch up with schoolwork when I come back. I'll try to post again before I leave, but there will probably be a bit of a gap between that post and the next one, depending on what my work load is like. But since I usually post at a pretty fast rate to begin with, it's not much of a big deal. For now, it's time to catch back up with Britomart! Enjoy!

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**Twenty-Six. Britomart: Lonely Heart.**

Ever since Leliana was first welcomed among the band of surviving Grey Wardens by the benevolence of Lady Aeducan, Britomart has done her best not to say a single word to her.

At first, she decided upon this for entirely cruel reasons. She could tell Leliana was eager to endear herself to her after their rocky start at Dane's Refuge, and Britomart was resolved not to give her the satisfaction of becoming friends. _Let her preach her lies to the others_, she had thought, relying on this new found sense of self-righteousness to keep her aloof and distant from anyone besides Lady Aeducan who veered too close. She coached herself to believe that by submitting to cruelty, she was staying true to who she really is, or at least to the familiar terms of how people defined her. The bad seed of her family, the foil to Rica, the one with skin so thick that nothing could get past it.

But all the same, the sight of Leliana being hurt by her coolness troubles her, just like it had always secretly hurt her when she lashed her words against Rica. Rica had been such an easy target, with accusations like _whore_and _spoiled brat_ almost readymade to use against her, but it had truly given Britomart no comfort to see Rica's expression when the words had come out of her mouth during her fits of frustration. And Rica realized this, even before Britomart became aware of it herself.

_Don't say these words to me that you don't mean_, her sister had said to her, tears of pity pooling in her eyes. _This isn't you. The Britomart I know has been hurt by these expressions too deeply to in all honesty and with all her heart throw them back at me._

It is the same with Leliana. Britomart tells herself she should be getting pleasure out of the bothersome woman's pain if her true identity is all it was made out to be back in Orzammar, but the pain she inflicts is too close to what was once inflicted on her own heart for her to be comfortable with it. She wonders—though not to the point where she will be forced to answer her own questions and make a decision for herself—that if she truly is the horrible hearted aberration she is supposed to be, why can she not find satisfaction in the sight of what damage she has done to those she is not supposed to love?

Because of this, or maybe because the loss of speech is too much for a tongue used to saying more than is appropriate, when the Wardens finish fighting their way through Redcliffe castle and have returned to the village for the night before setting out to seek a cure for the possessed Connor, Britomart sits down beside Leliana at the table where they have set up a temporary canteen in the Chantry, and finally opens her mouth to break the long held silence between them. She has nothing in particular to say, and had no intention of crossing any of the boundaries she has drawn up like a map in her head, but a part of her wishes to know if this openness she has denied herself has anything more to offer her than what the sharp wire fence she had encaged herself in all her life does.

"That accent of yours," she begins, her words as stiff and uncomfortable as they had been when she'd first battled her self-doubt to engage in conversation with Lady Aeducan. "It's from the same place as that loud lady's, isn't it?"

Leliana blinks for a moment, surprised at being addressed by the woman who had gone out of her way to ignore her ever since they'd met. She glances around her, just to be sure she is the one being spoken to. The only other person at the table with a distinctive accent is Zevran, and he is too far away from them to hear anything Britomart might say, and much too removed for her to even bother trying to speak with him. After deducing that Britomart's question was, of all things, directed at her, she clears her throat and says, "You are talking to me?" in case by some strange twist of fate she is actually dreaming this encounter.

"Do you see anyone else here it could apply to?" Britomart stabs her slab of meat ferociously with a fork, already feeling unnerved by this exchange. By deliberately not speaking to Leliana, she had made herself conspicuous, but by resuming speech out of the blue, she has made herself all the more so. It would be like seeing Alain or Sten jumping up on the table and dancing on it after all their show of seriousness. These sorts of shifts prompt the questioning of motives, and the last thing Britomart needs is Leliana prying into her intentions. She is not in the least sure of them herself, and she would prefer to have more clarity on that answer before giving anyone else leave to solve it.

"No, I suppose not. And by 'the loud lady,' you mean…?"

Britomart wrinkles her nose and lifts her chin imperiously in an imitation of Arlessa Isolde. "TEEEEGHAN! WHO IZ THIS WOOOMAN?" Britomart barks, causing Dulcia, whom the statement was first directed to, to jump up in surprise at her seat. "ALEESTAIR? OF ALL THE—"

"All right, all right," Leliana laughs, a bit surprised at the adeptness of Britomart's mimicry. "I understand what you mean. And yes, we would speak the same, because we have both been raised with Orlesian influence."

"Orlais, huh?" Britomart muses. "All we know of that place in Orzammar is that some of its goods end up in our cities from the surfacers. Most of it is a bit too extravagant for us, but many of the noblewomen enjoy your perfumes and jewelry."

"It is very fine, is it not?" Leliana says, her eyes shining with pride. Britomart sighs in relief. This is clearly the perfect subject to get Leliana's mind off of asking why Britomart has broken her vow of silence so that the talkative minstrel can instead focus solely on providing the conversation. "Orlais has her faults just like every country, but our niceties are unparalleled in all of Thedas. I do not know what you favor in Orzammar, but the Fereldans are quite deficient in their fashion sense, no? Take Dulcia and Alixire for example. They are both very beautiful woman, but their looks are quite undermined by those clothes they are wearing. Just look at those boots of Dulcia's! So thick and clunky and shapeless! And Alixire's robes! Why must such a perfectly formed woman such as herself suffer wearing a shield over her lower half and circle cages around her breasts?"

"It is better than what I had in Dust Town," Britomart snorts, although she too thinks Ferelden robes are hideous. "We salvaged scraps and sewed dresses from them whenever we had enough. Since I was in the carta, I at least had armor, but it wasn't very… substantial." She shivers, remembering her ordeal in the Kocari Wilds. "Someone like me would see your pretty Orlesian gowns, but I was never allowed to touch them. Unless I wanted to hunt for nobles like my sister, but I would have rather hunted them in the slaughter sense of the word."

Suddenly, Britomart clamps her mouth shut, realizing that she has talked more than she planned on doing. "Back to the original subject. Are Orlesians really like that lovely EESOLDE? I am used to snobbery, but I don't like it directed at my friends. When she accused Lady Aeducan of being IMPEARTEENANT, I thought I might kill her."

Leliana sighs. "You are very fond of Arlindria, yes? How greatly you esteem her reflects well on your capabilities as a friend. I am envious that she has earned your respect, which I see is not easily won."

"She is my princess, and my superior in strength and intelligence," Britomart says sharply. "There is no person in the world more worthy of my good opinion. But I do not wish to speak of that. It does not answer my question."

"You may answer the question yourself. Do I strike you as being similar to the Arlessa?"

"I do not know. You are not at all what you seem, are you? You have the words and manners of a Maker crazed Revered Mother, a tone of lasciviousness, and such a look in your eyes when you battle that indicates you have more of a history with it than you would like us to believe."

"You say that, but you are the same. As heartless as you would like me to think you are, I do not buy it for a minute, you realize. No one sees a game clearer than a fellow player."

"If you don't believe I'm heartless, you don't know me at all, or what I've done."

"You are right. I do not know you well at all, but is that fault mine? You are hardly in a hurry to make yourself known, I've noticed." Leliana smiles, a sly sort of grin that Britomart thinks hints at a more sinister aspect of her life than she ever would have expected from someone with roots in the Chantry. "But for now, since you have finally given me permission to speak with you, I will not let you revoke it. There is much I have wished to ask you, and much, I think, you wish to know of me."

"Speak for yourself."

"I have learned through experience to tell the difference between callous words and a callous heart. Say what you will, but it will not convince me to think you worse than what you are." She purses her lips, as if considering an important matter. "May I tell you something that I have been thinking since I first saw you? I like the way you wear your hair. Long hair that is as fine and silken as yours is very valuable where I come from, and many noble women will go through great pains to replicate what you naturally possess. I once had long hair, too, but it is somewhat of a vanity to have it in the Chantry. One does not wish to stand out in such a place, so I thought it best to cut it short, like this."

"My hair," Britomart repeats blankly. "That's the first thing that comes to mind when you think of me?"

"Oh no, not quite. I do like it, but I think it would suit you very well if it was entwined in flowers of gems like an Orlesian lady's. You would look so stunning that even the Arlessa would bend a knee to you and vow to reach the heights of your beauty."

Britomart scoffs. "I have no use for fine things. It doesn't erase this." She rests a finger against her Brand. "My boss in the carta always said dressing up a duster is like putting diamonds in nug shit. It may sparkle, but it's still crap."

Leliana only laughs. "What charming terms! But your boss assumes wrongly that what you are is something vulgar and unwelcome. You are a strong fighter and a Grey Warden, and one day you will play a part in healing this land. If that does not make you something special, I do not know what will. Besides," she adds, reaching out to touch a strand of Britomart's raven hair, "you do not need accessories to sparkle. You are very beautiful as you are. I merely suggested the idea because it is a very good feeling to have something you have always been denied but you forever wanted. Forbidden fruits taste the sweetest, yes?"

"The jewelry and the dresses and those things are nice dreams to have, but they should stay as dreams. I'd rather spend my efforts on the greater things kept from me and the people I love. A pretty gown would satisfy only me, and only for a moment."

"Of course. But to walk great distances for yourself, you must begin with small steps. And you are allowed to take selfish steps, too, steps that get you far so you can blaze a trail for those behind you." She polishes off the last of her wine and smiles down at Britomart. "I abandoned most of my things when I came to Lothering, but I do have some small trinkets. A pin for the hair, a necklace, a pair of slippers that I wore when I was younger. If you like, it would make me happy to see you wear them. I could style your hair, and we could enjoy a peaceful evening as ladies. I could tell you stories of Val Royeux, and you could share your own adventures with me. I do not know much of Orzammar besides what your Lady Aeducan has told me, but I am interested to hear your own thoughts, since your perspective is so very different."

"And what makes you think any of this will make _me_ happy?"

"I have no such certainty. What I possess is merely hope for you. Think what you want of the Chantry, but it has at least taught me that there are many lonely souls in this world, and they exist everywhere you can imagine, even within the bodies of those who outwardly show the most bravery or confidence or resistance to having their solitude alleviated."

Britomart frowns, but she feels strangely alert to what Leliana is saying, as if something is reaching deep inside to shake a sleeping part of her awake. "And you think I am one of those lonely souls?" she asks. She wants to add, _don't pretend you know me so well, _but she pauses before the words can leave her mouth. What if Leliana is right? What if the answer to her bitterness, aggression, and disconnect truly equals out to the simple answer of loneliness? What if her thirst for recognition stems more from her desire to have someone to love and appreciate her more than it does from pride in her own talents?

"Yes," Leliana says finally, her bright blue eyes studying Britomart with a sad and understanding gaze. "Yes, I do. Don't you?"

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**Coming Up:**Before leaving Redcliffe, Dulcia gives Alistair his mother's amulet, and receives an unexpected gift in return.


	27. Dulcia: Pure Rose

**A/N: ** Time for a tender moment between Alistair and Dulcia. This guy makes me want to swoon... Enjoy!

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**Twenty-Seven. Dulcia: Pure Rose.**

Dulcia had found the amulet on the desk in Arl Eamon's study, nestled gently in tissue paper and covered in hairline fractures that were carefully rejoined like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. At first, she could not quite remember why the necklace seemed so familiar. It was a simple design, silver with a blue gem in its center, but the fact of its brokenness made it unique and reminiscent of something she had heard recently. Before resorting to taking it up based on a hunch alone, she had closed her eyes and pondered over the matter, and suddenly drew up the memory where this amulet belonged.

Not long after they'd left Lothering, Alistair had asked her about the pin she always wore in her hair. "It's a very fancy thing to pair along with your armor," he'd noted, surprising her with an observation she found uncommon for a man. "I'm guessing it must be something very special to you."

"It is. The interlocking olive branches are the heraldry of my family, and this pin was what my mother wore in her hair when she married my father. She gave it to me when I was fifteen, and I've worn it ever since. Even though she's gone, I guess it helps me feel closer to her."

"I thought it might be something like that. I noticed that most of you have at least one thing you salvaged through Ostagar and everything else we've been through since. At least I _think_ that's why Alain's toting around a pair of women's boots and Arlindria drags along that ceremonial shield." His hand had strayed to his neck for a moment, to where the necklace containing the blood from his Joining rested. "I once had something special like that, but when I was young and stupid, I destroyed it in a fit of temper. It was a necklace of my mother's, the only thing I really had that belonged to her, and when Arl Eamon and the Arlessa sent me off to the Chantry to be trained as a Templar, I hurled it at the wall and it shattered into pieces. Stupid, stupid thing to do."

Now as Dulcia holds the amulet once again between her fingers, she wonders just how happy Alistair will be when he realizes that it had not been lost to a moment of foolishness, but rather salvaged and painstakingly reformed by what must have been Arl Eamon's own efforts. Objects are just objects, she knows, and are not meant to be treasured in the place of the real people they evoke, but all the same, even though her memories of her mother would still remain whole if her hair pin somehow broke, she understands what a special thing it is to hold something that was once touched by a parted loved one and to carry on the importance of the things that were once important to them.

She slips out of the Chantry, where their group has been invited to stay the night by the Revered Mother before they leave to continue on in their journeys, scanning the village for signs of Alistair. She hasn't seen him since dinner, but guesses that he probably went outside to reacquaint himself with the place where he had grown up, no matter how unhappily. Dulcia does not begrudge him his absence, but wishes he had thought to ask her along to walk with him, even it meant she would have to invade upon his moments of privacy. She worries about him when he is alone. He is the type of person whose insecurities grow without anyone there to relieve him of them, and she can only imagine that looking upon Redcliffe on his own will only increase his feelings of sadness as he remembers a time when he felt unwanted and unsure of his place in the world he was born into.

She finds him sitting at the docks, his feet dangling over the edge and just barely skimming over the water, sending ripples further out to sea. He turns around for a moment when he hears her coming, and smiles with both surprise and pleasure when he sees her face. Her heart beats in her chest just a little bit faster as the corners of his mouth turn upwards. _This happiness is because of me, _she thinks to herself in amazement. Once upon a time she had enjoyed toying with the hearts of the boys in Highever, delighting in their fear and awe of her more than anything else, but she realizes this feeling of eliciting someone else's joy is much more gratifying to her than being responsible for amusing discomfort. She still loves it when he stammers around her and laughs nervously in his innocence, but his happiness is something she can reciprocate, something mutual that can draw the two of them together.

"You came looking for me," he says, his tone indicating that he is glad she did, even though he is unsure of the reason why. "Would you like to sit?"

"Please." She walks to the end of the dock and settles down beside him, hovering her own feet above the waters of Lake Calenhad. "Is all well with you?"

"I'm fine. I mean, I'm as well as can be expected. It's just that…" He trails off, his eyes widening in horror at the sound of his words. "No! Never mind all of that. Every time I'm with you, I end up dumping all of my troubles on to your shoulders. I'm surprised you haven't taped my mouth shut yet or let Morrigan do me in to repay me for my blubbering. I must drive you crazy sometimes."

"Not all. I didn't realize this before, but I'm the kind of person who likes to have people depend on me. It makes me feel special, as if I can do something someone else can't. As if I'm making a difference that no one else can make." With a smile, she pulls his mother's amulet from her pouch. "For you."

"Hmm?" He takes the amulet in his hand and studies it reverently. "This… this is my mother's, isn't it? Where did you find this?"

"I saw it in Redcliffe castle, in the Arl's study. I know that I probably shouldn't have taken it without consulting the Arlessa—not that I want to talk to her again, ever—but I remembered your story about it, and thought that you should have it as soon as possible. If it causes trouble, I'll take the blame, I promise."

"Forget that! The Arl's study? Are you certain?" He presses the amulet firmly in his hands. "Does this mean…?"

"I think it means he cares about you more than you think."

"Maybe… maybe it does." He edges his hand closer to hers on the dock, just close enough for her to notice. "And as for you… you really remembered me telling that story? I'm more used to people shutting their ears as soon as I open my mouth."

"But I care about you, Alistair. You're special to me."

Alistair's mouth falls open for a moment, and then shuts again when he realizes she is staring at him with an amused expression on her face. "Oh, um, well, t-thank you. I don't know what to say. You're special to me, too. And that's why… well, I have something for you." He shuffles through his pouch and pulls out a rose. "Do you know what this is?"

"Is that a trick question?" Dulcia laughs. "It looks like a flower, but since you ask, perhaps it is something else to you?"

"Yes, I suppose it is. I found it in Lothering. I remember thinking how strange it was to see something so beautiful in a place driven to such desperation. I knew the darkspawn were going to come and destroy everything good about that place that hadn't already been destroyed, and I don't know… I just wanted this rose to survive. I wanted there to be something good and beautiful to remain even through the darkness." He pauses, his fingers gently brushing against hers. "In a way, I feel the same way about you."

"You think I'm a delicate flower?"

"Not that. Perish the thought! No delicate flower I know would have had such a display with Ser Jory back when we were in the Wilds. In fact, that's one of the things I like about you. I like that you're not delicate." He extends the rose to her, letting her examine his offering. "What I meant to say is that it reminds me of you because you are both signs of hope in this time of darkness. You are unlike anyone I've ever met before. It's not just that you're kind. It's that your heart is so strong and giving that whenever you see someone suffering needless pain, you think first of them before you think of yourself. You are a true Grey Warden in every sense of the word."

Dulcia shakes her head, though flattered by his assessment of her. "How odd to hear you say such things. That is the last way I would have described myself at the onset of this journey. And please realize that so much of what I do and think is still inspired by my own selfishness, even when my actions are beneficial to others. Perhaps the real reason I perform them is so I can seem impressive to those I most wish to impress."

"And who would that be?" Alistair asks in confusion. "Everyone already adores you."

"Who indeed?" She reaches out for the stem of the flower and curls her fingers around it, above where his are already placed. "But I am happy that you think so well of me, and am glad to accept this gift. It's a sweet gesture."

His fingers remain around the flower for a moment, even when she tries to lift it from his grasp. "Do you also accept," he whispers softly, "what this gesture stands for?"

Gently, Dulcia eases his fingers open and pries the flower from him. "I do," she says, pulling her mother's pin from hair and fastening it to Alistair's rose. "The object and sentiment are both precious things to me."

"That's good to hear. Now, can I go off somewhere and hide for a while until the blushing subsides?"

She closes the last inch of distance between their hands, twining her fingers in his. "And what if I want you here to stay here with me? Will you?"

"Well…" He laughs nervously, giving her hand a light, barely perceptible squeeze. "I guess I can just about manage that."

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**Coming Up: **When the group makes a detour to Denerim for supplies and information, Arlindria receives an unwelcome surprise when she realizes her lover has been less than faithful while she's been away


	28. Arlindria: Gorim's Betrayal

**A/N: **Aah, Gorim. You started off so strong, but lost all of your points in one scene. Bad boy. In other news, Ohayocon was AWESOME, and I couldn't be happier with this past weekend. However, do not expect too much happiness to spill over into this... my annoyance with Gorim has outweighed it for the time being. Enjoy!

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**Twenty-Eight. Arlindria: Gorim's Betrayal.**

Although Denerim is much bigger than Arlindria had ever dreamed it would be, she is not fearful as she walks through its bustling streets, accosted by vendors at either side and commanded to peruse wares ranging from Orlesian perfumes to mabari harnesses, that she will be unable to find the place where Gorim is waiting for her, just as he promised he would be before he left for the surface. In theory, she knows he could be anywhere. She assumes that the market district is the right location given that the natural occupation for surface dwarves is first and foremost in the trade business, but the market district is not simply composed of open stalls; there are religious buildings, homes, taverns, brick-and-mortar shops, and warehouses as well. Any one of them could be where Gorim is, and even if their group had more time to spare in the city, there still wouldn't be enough time for her to search them all for sign or trace of him.

But still Arlindria is unconcerned by these details. She and Gorim have always been drawn to each other, even in spite of whatever distance or circumstances often existed between them, and though they are far away from their old lives and former pursuits, she believes with all her heart that the magnetism that always brought them back to one another is still there. There is no question in her mind that she will see him; the only pressing question is when, how soon, and how happy will he be when he sees her face for the first time in so long.

As Arlindria wanders through Denerim with Britomart, her new unofficial bodyguard, trailing a little ways behind, she tries to remember the first time she became aware of Gorim's presence beside her. He had always been there, for as long as she can remember. His family had long ago aligned itself with hers, and it was understood that one of the Aeducans would serve as his master when the time came. Trian was the natural choice, but then Arlindria was born and it became clear that Gorim would have no one else but her._ There was just something about you, _Gorim explained to her when she was older. _Trian was always bit of a cold stone, but you… you were warm and thoughtful from the very beginning. Even as a child, you were the kind of person I would have been happy to follow anywhere._

As his mistress, Arlindria had no obligations to respect him in turn or even to acknowledge his presence as anything more than a tool to be used to her own advantage, but it had not taken her long to grow to love him, first as a friend, and then as the mate of her heart. She adored how faultlessly loyal he was to her, but more than anything she loved how he treated her like a person, rather than just a Princess of Orzammar. Her word came first to him, but he was never afraid to correct her when she was wrong or scold her when her own stubbornness got the better of her judgment.

It is a mark of Arlindria's strength that she can continue on without the assistance of her right hand, but all the same, she is acutely aware of his absence. She feels lopsided and incomplete, as if an essential element that makes her who she is has abandoned her. She wants it back, or to at least have the knowledge that it is still hers and is waiting to rejoin her one day.

"My lady?" Britomart says tentatively behind her. "Are we supposed to be going around in circles like this?"

"I'm trying to catch my bearings. There is someone I'm supposed to find here, and I have a feeling that this is close to the right place…"

She falls silent, listening to the voices calling out around her. _Fine Antivan daggers… Come to Wonders of Thedas for all your magical needs… Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him… Dwarven crafts, fine dwarven crafts…_

Arlindria snaps to attention instantly. "It's him!"

"Him who?"

"My second! He was banished along with me, and he said he would be waiting for me here. It's him! I'd know his voice anywhere."

She steps forward, following the sound of his voice to an open air market stall. At the sight of his face, her mouth spreads into a smile so wide it is almost painful. She had almost forgotten how much she missed her home and her life from before. In spite of the challenges in front of them, she has enjoyed her time among the Wardens and their new companions, and has found a purpose that is in some ways even greater than the one she had left behind. But the sight of him, the sound of his voice, the familiar things about him that she carries with her wherever she goes reminds her of the reasons she is a part of this campaign to begin with. It is not just for her own sake, or for Ferelden's, but for the sake of everything he sacrificed by standing by her and loving her when he could have abandoned her to her fate.

"Gorim," she says, slowly approaching him. She has never been one to throw herself on him or make a show of weeping during times like these, but she wants more than anything to be beside him, to feel his hands within hers once again as if they had never been apart.

"My lady Aeducan!" Gorim cries, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. "Is… is that really you? So you survived Ostagar. You're really here."

He reaches a hand out and gently takes a strand of her honey blonde hair between his fingers. Arlindria closes her eyes and leans into his palm, enjoying the affectionate gesture that she had once taken for granted but now appreciated as something worth suffering through anything for.

"I knew you would make it through the Deep Roads," Gorim continues, his voice still quiet with awe. "Your father, too. He summoned me before I left to talk about you. He wanted you to know that he regretted his decision from the moment he made it. He regrets it so much that it's killing him. It's like he's an empty husk, devoid of all happiness and vitality. If age doesn't kill him, sorrow surely will." He releases her hair and presses his hand instead against her cheek. "He loved you more than anything, you know. Causing you pain hurt him more than anything else has in all of his life."

"Father," Arlindria whispers. "If only I could be there with you."

"You are merciful in ways I could never be. I hated him for what he did to you, but I suppose in a way I did pity him. For all his wisdom, he could not stop Bhelen, protect Trian, or hold onto you."

"Still, I will forgive him his mistake. He would have never doubted me if I had not given him reason to."

"My lady Aeducan. Do not dwell on these things of the past. We all have our faults, and yours are lesser than my own and those of your brothers. You never did anything to deserve what happened to you; never doubt that." He gives her cheek a gentle stroke and lowers his hand again. "In any case, it's good to see you again. I would have never forgiven myself if you had died without me there to protect you."

"This is me we're speaking of, Gorim," she says, her spirits lifting a little. "Dying isn't on the agenda."

"Of course. Of course it isn't." His smile suddenly fades into a look of pained confusion. "You know, if I had known it would happen like this… that you would come back and find me so soon…"

"Then what?" she asks, her heart sinking again. She is unused to him looking so afraid of her, as if she will lash out against him at any moment.

"Then…" Gorim looks down at his feet with a sense of shame Arlindria has never seen in him before. He has always been prideful, just as she is, and has only been given to regretting those failures which were in his power to prevent. This look on his face—contrite, embarrassed, and in some ways defensive—tells her that he has done something she will not like, but something he believes is justified, even if she does not.

"We always knew it would be difficult between us," he says finally. "You will always be in my heart, but you were never supposed to be more than a master to me. That's the way it is in Orzammar. We were going to have to come to terms with it eventually."

"We aren't in Orzammar," she interrupts, her hands clenching into fists. "I am not Lady Aeducan. I am nobody. I am no one."

"Even if we aren't in Orzammar in body, you and I will always be there in spirit. And there are lines we shouldn't cross… lines we shouldn't have crossed, back then. We were always going to have to give it up, no matter how much we didn't want to."

"I would have done no such thing! If Bhelen could have a casteless lover, why can I not enjoy the love of a good and honorable man? You know me, Gorim. You know me better than anyone. Am I the type of person who does things she has no intention of following through with? Am the type of person to sacrifice what I love for such trivial reasons? Am—"

He takes a deep breath and interrupts her. "I found someone on the surface. My… my _wife_ is a good woman, the daughter of the best dwarven smith in Denerim. We're expecting our firstborn by spring."

Arlindria stares at him for a moment, waiting for him to announce that he is playing an elaborate joke on her or is testing her own loyalty by making her question his. But nothing changes in the seriousness of his face other than the occasional flash of guilt which is countered by an immediate look of defiance. He means everything is saying to her, and, worst of all, a part of him does not regret his choice, no matter how much it hurts her and everything she ever felt for him.

She puts a hand on her forehead and grits her teeth. "I am such an idiot," she whispers. "First Bhelen, and now you. When will I learn not to trust the people with the power to hurt me the most?"

"My lady Aeducan—"

"We've been together since we were children. If that's something you can dismiss within the span of months, how much did I mean to you to begin with? You meant everything to me, and that's why I never would have done this to you, not if there was the smallest chance I would injure the person who matters the most to my heart. If you wouldn't do the same, I can only assume I didn't mean very much to you. Not at all." She sucks in her breath. "I've been so blind. So very blind."

"Don't say that. You were my entire world, my lady."

"That doesn't mean you ever loved me. It only means you depended on me, or were in awe of me. Neither of those things equal happiness. Not in the way I was happy with you." She bites her lips, suppressing the worst words she is capable of throwing back at him. "I wish I could say that I am glad for you. But I am not, and I have no reason to lie to you. Not like you lied to me and lied to yourself all these years. I'm not like that. I'm _not_."

"I can't bear your disappointment, my lady Aeducan."

"Disappointment? What I feel is worse than that. My power wasn't what I thought it was, and neither were you. What do I have left anymore? What have I done or believed in that was actually worth something in the end?"

"Please, my lady." He tries to put his on her shoulder, but she draws away before he can. "I know you have been disheartened lately, but please allow me to do something good for you. Let me offer you a discount on my father-in-law's goods for whenever you have need of them. They are all fine works, and I am sure you and your companions won't find better dwarven smithing wherever else you go."

Arlindria hears a dagger unsheathing behind her, and without looking she knows Britomart has swooped in for her defense. "Do not belittle my lady," she snarls, pointing the blade at Gorim's throat. "She is worth ten of you, and her heart is more precious than anything you sell in that shop of yours. Do not attempt to apologize for breaking it with such cheap offerings."

"I swore to her that I would never give up on her, even if she gave up on herself," Gorim persists. "I still mean it. I want to help her in any way possible, even if she must sacrifice her pride to receive that help."

"You already gave up on her. You gave up on her the moment you admitted to yourself that the two of you would never be together, no matter how much she loved you." Britomart spits at his feet, smug for once that her Brand and his caste both mean nothing on the surface. "You don't need to give her anything else. You've already done enough."

With a forceful tug, Britomart propels Arlindria forward and away from the stall. "Bastard," she hisses under her breath. "And people wonder why I never want to interest myself in men. There's the reason right there."

"I'm an idiot," Arlindria repeats, leaning her suddenly heavy head on Britomart's shoulder. "I'm just like my father. For all my wisdom, I cannot see what is right in front of me. I cannot judge people until their true colors are plainly shown."

"What about Loghain? You were right about him after only five minutes in his presence! Don't let that sneaky piece of nug droppings make you lose faith in yourself. You were the finest woman in Orzammar. And even on the surface, you have been model for us all."

Arlindria shrugs, feeling indifferent for one of the first moments in her life. "I just don't see it anymore," she says emotionlessly, without tears or anger or even bitterness at her own defeat. "I don't know why I ever believed there was something worthwhile about being me."

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**Coming Up: **After arriving in Denerim to a closed off Alienage, Alain distracts himself by trying to figure out the mystery the endlessly baffling rogue Zevran presents in his life


	29. Alain: The Unknown Art

**A/N:**Since I haven't thanked my lovely readers in awhile, I'll do it now: I LOVE YOU GUYS. Seriously. Every review, favorite, view, etc makes my day. Thank you for continuing to support me, and I hope you continue to enjoy!

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**Twenty-Nine. Alain: The Unknown Art.**

For all his life, Alain had believed that the thing he wanted the most in all the world was to leave the Alienage. He could see the rest of Denerim, the human part, through the bars of the Alienage gate, and though his better judgment told him otherwise, a part of him was convinced that a better life awaited him on the other side. There would be no restrictions, no one to tell him no or scold him for being someone he was not meant to be. On the other side rested the mythic freedom of the Dalish, the untamed sort of life his mother had dreamed of, a life of flying daggers and intrigue and hardships equal across the races, whether they be elven, human, or dwarven. No matter how often his mind told him that such a world did not—and never would—exist, his heart beat with the idea there was something else out there, something unlike anything he'd ever seen before, something that was different enough to convince him there was some variety to be found in life other than what he'd been born into.

But now, standing with his fingers curled around the Alienage gate from the opposite and more desirable side, Alain wonders if he had wished for the right thing. He had been relieved to leave the Alienage to join the Wardens, and even though he misses his father and cousins more than words can ever express, he does not regret his decision for a moment. But still, he had always imagined when he left, there would still be a tangible place to return to whenever he wanted, a place to rest his head and feet and remind himself of why he had chosen to journey to places far from home to begin with. He never imagined he would return to find himself barred out like a stranger, faced with signs of 'quarantine' and 'entrance forbidden' on the threshold of his home, without any indication of who was safe and who was not, and how long it would be before he could see his family again.

He leans his head against the bar and sighs. From what he can see through the gate, the Alienage looks very much as he left it. In a state of dilapidation with bridges short a few handfuls of brick and puddles of gray-brown mud at every corner. It looks just as it did when he was a child staring through these very same bars, dreaming of an undefinable future where he was more than a nebulous, sloppily shaped being, but _Alain_, someone with the wants and self-interest he had been disallowed in his community. He wishes he could tell his younger self to stop dreaming and start living, or at least to cease his senseless faith in finding the answer by wishing alone. _You'll always want what's on the other side of the gate, no matter which side you're on,_he scolds the shadow of himself. _You'll always want what you can't have, and as long as you don't reach out and grab it for yourself, you'll be wanting for the rest of your life._

"So that's home sweet home, huh?" he hears Zevran say from beside him. Although Alain, being so lost in thought, hadn't noticed his arrival, he doesn't start in surprise or do anything more than nod his head in a short greeting to his new companion. He is less wary of Zevran than the others are, but all the same he wonders how much of himself he should reveal to this baffling stranger. The other Wardens have learned by now that asking Alain excessive questions is like trying to get to know a brick wall, but Zevran has either failed to realize this or else chosen to wait out his reticence. And perhaps because Zevran is an elf just like himself and thus shares a history similar to his own but with the kinds of freedoms he had always hungered for a taste of, Alain finds himself more willing to abandon his guardedness to test the waters of this mysterious fount of possibilities.

"Yes," Alain says shortly, still gazing out at what rests beyond the cage. "Sad, isn't it?" he adds when Zevran gazes up at him, as if waiting for him to continue.

"A bit homely, but I would not be so quick to call it sad. I should say it is a very happy place to be looked at so fondly by your eyes." Zevran leans up against the gate, although his gaze remains on Alain rather than the Alienage. "As an Antivan Crow, I know a thing or two about getting into places I'm not supposed to be. If you would like, perhaps the two of us can see if we can find a way around this gate?"

"Tempting, but I don't want to be involved in that sort of thing right now. I'm already a wanted a man here."

"In a criminal sense? You?" Zevran smiles in approval. "You're full of surprises, aren't you, my Grey Warden? A glorious slayer of darkspawn by day, a mass murderer of innocents by night!"

"Take the word 'innocents' out, and you're there." He pauses for a moment. "And it was day, not night."

"Ha! I knew there was something about you I liked. With a little bit of guile and lack of propriety, you would make a decent Crow yourself. Your subtlety and grace are already works of art for someone without intensive training. Was that mother of yours you mentioned before responsible?"

"She would say that she was responsible for the subtlety, but that the grace runs in the family."

"Naturally. The way you move is an uncommon thing to see in a man. It's the kind of thing the Crows would have tried to get their hands on had you been born in Antiva. But still, perhaps it was good fortune that you were born in this place instead. Antiva has a way of crushing innocence, and it would be a shame for you to be without that particular piece of charm before, say, being properly wooed out of it by the right person."

"You really think I'm all that innocent?"

"In matters of death, I would not dare to accuse any of you of being innocent. But for matters of the heart… let's just say that I can smell a virgin from a mile away. Although I must add that it was difficult to sense it from you and Alixire with the potent fumes of purity coming from Alistair."

"I see." Alain shifts his gaze slightly from the Alienage gate. "Is it such a bad thing to be disinterested in matters I find sickening?"

"Sickening? Ah, such a pity to hear such words coming from your mouth. A man so beautiful should not go to waste just because he hasn't been properly handled in the past. What have the women in your Alienage done to you, poor man?"

"Nothing in particular."

"And that's just it. Doing nothing yields nothing, yes? Had you been given something worth having, you would not be so unemotional, I think. That was one of the benefits to being in the Crows. From an early age, we were surrounded by such lovely things to fancy. Women, men—whatever we wanted. It taught us to appreciate beauty wherever we find it, and to chase after that which will provide the most happiness. You, on the other hand, strike me as someone who grew up with the self-denial of a cloistered priest."

"Is it denial if you don't want the thing to begin with?"

"It's denial if you pretend not to want something you do. I have a feeling the soul of a true romantic lingers somewhere in you. As I said, all you need is the proper person to unlock it for you."

"And I said I find it sickening." Alain drops his hand from the gate and at last turns to face Zevran head on. "Women are always playing at being in love, but what they really want is to adopt you and make you what they want you to be rather than what you are. They think just because you look a certain way you have to be a certain way, and then become disappointed when the reality doesn't match up with what they see." He shrugs and shakes his head. "Perhaps it's only that way for me. My father and mother were happy together, and it's a livening thing to see Alistair when he's around Dulcia. But I just don't see anything of myself in them. My mother was the only woman I ever wanted to rely on."

Zevran smacks his shoulder in delight at this speech. "The fact that you just strung more than two sentences together means this a passionate subject for you, just as I thought. Now allow me to make a suggestion for your predicament that I am surprised you have not figured out for yourself. You say you find women distasteful, but you have given no indication that you are adverse to men. I think you'll find them much less predisposed to treat you like a project and more inclined to think only of satisfying _you_ and what you want."

Alain lifts his eyebrow, the initial confusion he felt upon meeting Zevran returning. "But that isn't possible, is it?" he asks.

At this remark, Zevran appears just as confused as Alain feels. "How so? You must know that physically it's quite possible, so in what sense do you mean? Do you mean it's impossible for you to feel attracted to a man?"

"No, not that. But if it were possible, wouldn't I have heard of it before? The men and women have always been paired together in the Alienage. Since my father and the hahren both know I have no fondness for women, wouldn't they have discussed pairing me with a man if such a thing were possible?"

Zevran continues to look confused for a moment until he suddenly breaks out into light-hearted chuckles. "Forget Alistair being Captain Chastity of the Warden team," he snickers. "You are even more innocent than I gave you credit for. Alienage elves are very concerned with reproduction and continuing on the line, yes? Because of that, your father and hahren would have paired you with a woman regardless of your preference. I'm sure a good number of men and women in your village are sneaking around behind their spouse's back for this very reason unless, like you, they have no idea that to do so is even a valid option."

Alain opens his mouth and then shuts it again, trying to collect his thoughts. Had his father and the hahren truly hidden this from him? Did they guess he might be different and then decided to keep him in the dark to prevent him from rejecting his marriage to Nesiara? And if he knew, would he have prevented it? Would he have asked for the opportunity to figure himself out before leaping dutifully into the tradition he wanted no part of?

"Let me put this plainly, because you seem too confused at the moment to grasp anything subtle," Zevran says, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I fancy things that are strong and beautiful, not to mention things that are exciting and dangerous. Especially things that can kill hundreds of darkspawn without flinching, but are clearly baffled when it comes to the finer arts of pleasure. That's why, when it comes to all the gems of loveliness to be found in this camp, I have come to fancy you the most. Does that trouble you?"

"Me?" Alain echoes blankly, pressing a hand against his unexpectedly noisy heart. "Y-you aren't just saying that because you want to teach me not to be so innocent, are you?"

"Not at all. As I said before, I enjoy your innocence. I do not wish to change you, but simply to give you the knowledge of the thing you most want in the world. Is that so wrong?" He leans in closer. "Besides, I am sure you are used to hearing this, but you are simply a delightful specimen of man. You have the slimness and grace of a female, but have the undeniable strength and musculature of a male. Only someone with very poor eyesight would not pause to look."

"But you could have anyone."

"True. So it must speak well of you when I suggest that you are the one who has captured my interest. But do not let anything going on in my head influence you. What do _you_feel, my Grey Warden? Where do your fancies lie?"

"I fancy…" Alain trails off. "I fancy things that are different from what I have been told to fancy. Things that are challenging and are not immediately easy to understand. Things that are hard for me to truly have… things that are worth giving my voice to."

"A tall order, I see. No wonder you have struggled to find someone to fulfill it. I probably am not the ideal person you are looking for, but know that my offer to you still stands. There are people in this world who are troublesome to know better, but I do not think you are one of them. I would like very much for the chance to prove my fancy right."

Alain spares one last glance to the barred off Alienage. _Is this the world you wanted to find? _he asks himself. _You wished to know yourself and live for yourself more than anything. But are you really ready to know? Are you afraid of what you might find?_

He feels Zevran's eyes still upon him and turns back to meet them. He is conscious of the presence of his heart in his chest, its rapid beating, its heaviness. He still has no clue of what any of it means, or if this strange stirring in the pit of stomach signifies anything important or if it is just nervousness at having to embrace an idea that he has never realized before, but he knows he will never come to understand his feelings if he stops here. All he can do is go forward and discover the path as he goes along, wherever it leads. And here, this moment, are the first steps he will need to take to get somewhere, to the other side of the gate he has never been able to reach.

"Okay," he says softly, letting the last of his reservations fall from him. "You can try me."

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**Coming Up:**Alistair wants to meet his sister, but when she isn't quite what she expected, Dulcia gives him a bit of tough love about the inevitably of motives and self-interest in life.


	30. Dulcia: A Hard Truth

**A/N: **When I played DAO for the first time, this final part of this scene was my absolute favorite. As one of the biggest saps on the planet, Alistair never fails to make me weak kneed. Enjoy.

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**Thirty. Dulcia: A Hard Truth.**

It is amusing for Dulcia to see Alistair worked up over the prospect of seeing his long lost sister, Goldanna, now that they have finally reached Denerim. He had tried to seem indifferent when he first broached the topic with her, as if reuniting with Goldanna was only an idle whim of his, brought upon only by casual curiosity and nothing more, but now his excitement leaks through in all its glory, complete with flushed cheeks and comical expressions of the word 'sister' repeated like a mantra. His spirits have been higher again of late, and it does her good to see him smiling and laughing without a care in the world, but all the same she knows him to be sensitive enough to fall prey to the slightest provocation, and she worries that this situation may provide ample opportunity for him to be hurt. The higher his hopes are, the greater the injury he sustains when he crashes, and Dulcia does not want him to be placed in such a condition, not after she has worked so hard to keep pleased and contented at her side.

It is the fact that the sister is an unknown variable that worries her. Having Fergus for a brother has taught her a thing or two about family dynamics, and how much sharing a history and a foundation for everyday life matters in staying close. She loves Fergus more than almost everything in the world, but that love comes from the fact of his presence at her side from day one, the memories they have shared over long years of suffering the same trials and exalting the same triumphs. But had she and Fergus not been born Couslands together, she cannot help but wonder what she would think of him if she passed him by chance walking through the streets. He would be just another face to her, and even if they did happen to speak, her love would not be so forthcoming and immediate as it had been when they were children. She would be under no obligation to adore him, and without the shared experience to bond them, she may not bother to look twice upon him, or perhaps only regard him as a casual acquaintance at best.

This is the risk Dulcia realizes that Alistair faces in Goldanna. Since he has been bereft of a proper family, he will demand the most from her and ask for her to immediately fill the place in his life that had been vacated. What worries Dulcia is that Goldanna will not feel this similar motivation, and that she will see only the face of a stranger who has no part in her life in spite of the blood they share. Such is the natural way of the world, but Alistair knows so little about these things and is so determinedly convinced in the goodness of those he trusts that Dulcia fears that they are walking into a lion's den in meeting his sister, and that his well-intentioned trust will be thrown back in his face one time too many.

"This is the place," Alistair says, pointing to a small hovel nearby the central market tents. "Should we go in? I feel like I'll start babbling if we stay out here any longer."

"There's no need to be afraid. I'll be at your side." She presses a comforting hand on his shoulder and looks him directly in the eye. "No matter who awaits us inside, I will be proud to stand beside you."

"That's rather foreboding," Alistair says with a surprised laugh. "I'm pretty sure I'm not related to a tentacle monster or anything. And if I am, I give you full permission to be ashamed of me."

"The only person capable of shaming you is yourself. It doesn't matter what anyone else does or says, it is only what you do and what you say that defines who you are. My father told me that once. So even if your sister is a tentacle monster, it means nothing to me. The person I care about is you." She places her hand on the entrance to Goldanna's home. "Shall we?"

"All right. No pressure."

The woman inside is very much as Dulcia expected her to be based on the state of the hovel. She is slim and well structured, beautiful much in the same way Alistair is handsome, but clearly underfed and in many ways hardened by her life. Where Alistair has dimples and lines to indicate the number of times he has smiled and laughed, she has deep creases in her forehead and tough, weathered skin. Before Goldanna even opens her mouth to question their presence in her household, Dulcia's stomach sinks with the knowledge that Alistair will naturally be resented for being born under a luckier star than his impoverished sister.

However, out of respect for Alistair, she steps in properly to play her role as a mediator between them. _Goldanna this is your brother. He has wanted nothing more than to feel like a part of a family, a part of _something _that he can hold on to and that won't be taken away by forces outside of his control_, _so please show him kindness. For all those smiles you see on his face, he has known so very little in his life. So please prove me wrong and show him this world is not a cold place, but rather a place where his innocent trust can yield him something good._

But Goldanna is ignorant of Dulcia's quiet pleas and Alistair's earnestness. The most pressing thing she can think of when Alistair reveals his identity to her is that she did not demand enough money from the men that bribed her for her silence. The way she rambles on makes Dulcia nervous that she will demand compensation from Alistair immediately, but luckily he interjects before she can sink to that level.

"The babe didn't die," he says, his hands trembling at his side. "He's me… I am him, your brother."

"For all the good it did me! Your father forced himself on my mother, he did, and took her away from me. Didn't give me honest coin for it neither, just a single useless silver which barely lasted me a day. I should have told the world what I knew! I should have made those bastards pay."

"To what end?" Dulcia says coolly, stepping in between Goldanna and Alistair. "The crown has never caved to threats from those they consider insignificant, and any action on your part would have done nothing to bring your mother back."

"And who are you supposed to be?" Goldanna snaps, now turning her ire to Dulcia in a manner reminiscent of Lady Isolde. "Did my royal brother catch himself a pretty noble mistress?"

"I won't let you speak to her in that way," Alistair cries in a chilling voice that surprises Dulcia and seems to even raise Goldanna's eyebrows somewhat. "She is a Grey Warden like myself, and a beloved friend. Insult me all you want, but don't you dare say such things to Lady Cousland."

"Your unkindness does you no credit," Dulcia adds, gritting her teeth to hold back her temper. "Alistair came here to find his family. If you have no use for us, stop trifling with his good intentions, and allow us to leave."

Goldanna smirks. "No use for you? That's right. I got along without a brother just fine for all the years of my life. I've got five mouths to feed, so unless the honor of being part of your family includes the gift of coin, you can both see yourselves out. I don't know you, boy. If you were looking for kindness, you came to the wrong door."

"I see that now," Alistair says quietly. "Dulcia?"

"Let's go." Dulcia grabs his wrist and yanks him back out into the streets of Denerim, her face hot with anger just waiting to be released.

Once they have safely removed from Goldanna's house, Alistair releases a long sigh and presses his hand to his forehead. "That was not what I was expecting… to say the least. That _shrew_ was my sister? That was the family I was waiting for?"

Dulcia does not answer him immediately, but instead throws her hands up into the air in frustration. "I can't bear this anymore!" she cries, the full ferocity of the temper she has been protecting him from ever since she realized his interest in her finally displayed. "Maker pardon me, but if you keep doing this, I won't be able to forgive you!"

"D-Dulcia?"

"This is why I was never interested in attaching myself to someone like this before. If I keep spending all my energies in worrying after you and protecting you from these cold realities, I'll go gray like an old woman!" She places her hands on his shoulders and presses down on them firmly. "Alistair. I've come to care for you to the point where it's painful for me to see you unhappy. But still you keep putting yourself in positions where you will easily be hurt, as if you have no care at all for your own well-being, not to mention my own. I know you are a person that is honorable and kind, but you must realize that there are very few people in this world who will return your pure intentions with the same earnestness that you do. If you want to prevent these incidents from happening over and over again until you too cannot bear it any longer, you must realize that people are out for only themselves, and care only for that which achieves their own ends!"

Alistair stares at her blankly for a moment, clearly surprised by the force of her emotions, but slowly the disappointment in his eyes evens out and reveals a hardness where there wasn't before.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I should realize that. There are so many people like her in the world, but at the same time, there are people like you. How do I reconcile it? How can I convince myself that people are self-serving when you are so willing to forget yourself for my sake?"

"Forget myself! Ha!" Dulcia leans in closer, assuring that he has a clear glimpse of the seriousness of her expression. "Haven't you realized yet that I'm also out for myself? That all these efforts on my part are because I selfishly want you to think well of me? Your happiness is important, but perhaps I want it because it advances my own. So don't go around thinking I'm this selfless being when all I can think of are my own wants."

"Oh," he says softly. "So even you, huh? I guess you're right, then. Maybe selfishness isn't always such a bad thing." He places two of his fingers beneath her chin. "Now that I think of it, I'm the same as you. I selfishly want you to care about me, too. For my own happiness. I thought I was fooling myself… but it seems I fooled you, didn't I?"

He bends over, cradling her body in his arms, pulling her closer. She feels his breath tickling against her lips as he hesitates for a moment, but when she places her hand against his neck to urge him closer, he closes the gap between their mouths and kisses her for the first time. She can feel his inexperience in the contact, so she takes the lead for a moment, guiding his movements with her own and pulling away slightly whenever he becomes clumsy. However, it doesn't take him long to adjust to this new experience, and when he began to move confidently against her, she allows him control again, taking a step back to simply enjoy the first kiss she'd ever had that was ever as mutual as this one.

He pulls away, out of breath, and rests his forehead against hers. "That wasn't too soon?" he asks, and she only laughs and kisses him quickly one last time to let him know she is fine. Better than fine, even. _Wonderful_.

"I can't believe this. To think I was just utterly miserable a few seconds ago, and you've already made me feel like this. Maker's breath but you're beautiful. I am a lucky man."

"To have me? I'd say so." She laughs again and draws away from him slowly. "But remember what I said. Things are only going to get harder for us as we go along, not easier. It sounds cold, but we can't let it all touch us. We have to keep moving on."

"As long as you're here, I think I can live with that."

"And I will be. Now come on, let's go. Don't want your lovely sister to catch you with your noble mistress, right?"

His face breaks into a smile, and she smiles back, relieved to see him happy again, and glad to be happy again herself.

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**Coming Up: **Hannon hates to lose, and the game of seduction is no exception. Morrigan is determined not to fall in love, but to a Dalish elf, nothing is impossible- not even when the daughter of Asha'belannar is involved.


	31. Hannon: A Game of Seduction

**A/N: **Ahh, I had this chapter ready to post awhile ago, but ff wouldn't let me sign in. Now that I've finally gotten onto the site, here it is! Please note that this is Hannon's little game of seduction, and his views of sex (and Morrigan's, for that matter) are entirely different from my own. Enjoy!

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**Thirty-One. Hannon: A Game of Seduction.**

The night is cold on the outskirts of Denerim where they've pitched camp for the evening, but Hannon is not in the least bit bothered by it. In fact, he enjoys the unpredictability of sleeping outdoors among the fickle elements, where one never knows for sure when the rain will come or when the winds will come rushing past, slipping through tent flaps and keeping you up all night shivering. The Dalish are used to such things, but not immune to their annoyances and delights. If the rain and wind keep them awake, they sit around and tell stories until the storm subsides. If it grows too cold to bear, they curl up against each other for warmth. And though he had thought joining the human world would bring him into a culture painfully different from his own, Hannon's companions do the exact same things after their tents have been pitched and they've enjoyed a good meal around the fire. If anything, the harsh weather brings them closer together in order for them to find aid in one another, and has also encouraged them not be as divided and separate as they had been when they first entered into this haphazard union.

And, to Hannon's particular delight, all around him are indications of intricate games unfolding. Between Dulcia and Alistair there is something powerful, something very different from the romantic game of cat and mouse he is used to seeing, but notably purposeful nonetheless. It is clear that Dulcia is the one in power, but with every move she makes, Alistair, too, grows stronger and seemingly thrives enough to the point where each day he grows closer to matching her strength. And then there is Alain and Britomart, who have each become embroiled in similar games with Zevran and Leliana. Unlike Dulcia, they are hesitant players, with one eye focused on their cards while the other casually searches for an escape just in case, but Hannon also feels something in them shifting as the deepest of their insecurities slowly begin to slacken over time.

Although he finds their methods odd and at times humorous, Hannon realizes that as amateurs in these sorts of game, they are progressing quite nicely. When he was once in the role they are playing, he was just as tentative—if not more so—than they are now. Love, just like everything else in their culture, is a ritual to the Dalish, but to Hannon it was just another thing to learn and excel at until he was better than everyone else could ever hope to be. He stumbled through his first few conquests, mainly because the Dalish women were not easily wooed or taken in by anyone uninterested in long term commitment, but he carefully studied his failures and learned how things could be better maneuvered and strategized more carefully, and it wasn't long before he could have any woman he wanted swooning at his feet.

When that got too easy, he had made love a more challenging game for himself. Sex was a simple, primal thing, something that was quickly achieved and thrown aside like trash, so he decided to focus his efforts on retaining interest in his conquests, and then, when that term was satisfied, having them reciprocate with retained interest in him. It had seemed doable enough in theory, but in truth, Hannon was much too bored to keep an interest in anything that did not advance his own satisfaction and knowledge. The women in his clan just weren't right. They were either rightfully too busy or too intelligent to trifle with someone as careless as him, or else they were too willing to fall in love and thus too bland to capture his attention.

But now, especially now he is spurred on by the victories of his companions, Hannon finds himself ready to resume the game he had tired of among the Dalish. Morrigan is the ideal target in every way, from her scathing opinion of love to her willingness to be physically captured but never emotionally. She is someone who he will have to work for, and perhaps even lose to if she proves to be a more skilled player than he. All the same, the thought of defeat does not strike him as possible. He has never lost anything he truly wished to have, and though he does not completely understand why he would ever consider the prospect of falling in love with a human, regardless of the fact the she is somewhat redeemed by being a daughter of Asha'belannar, a foolish part of him wants her more than he has ever wanted something before.

As the wind increases its pace, driving the others closer together around the fire, Hannon gazes off to the remote area where Morrigan keeps to herself, away from the rest of their company. She claims that the distance is because listening to the others—namely Alistair—speak incessantly all evening gives her a headache, but Hannon is astute enough to realize that Morrigan is uninterested in being looked upon as anyone's friend. She has a grudging respect for everyone other than Alistair, but for some reason keeps herself from allowing these relationships to go any deeper, almost as if she fears that her inherent callousness will injure them if they come closer. Hannon is the only one who has been accepted by her, and even he is kept at a distance, receiving access to only that which she allows him to see.

With a smile, he picks himself off the ground and wanders over to her fire to sit beside her, secretly worried that she is cold on her own, especially given her lack of substantial clothing. As usual, she greets him with a sly smile while at the same time pretending to be annoyed that he has once again come to bother her.

"Can I expect to be bombarded with more questions?" she asks, rolling her eyes and shooting him a mild glare. "What do you wish to know now, or have you finally plumbed the depths of my brain?"

"Impossible," he says, laughing. "You know so much, lethallin, and what I know is only one speck of dirt in the forest. But I did not come to vex you tonight, I'm afraid. I just wanted to see how you were."

"How I am," she repeats, considering her answer. "Cold temperatures are nothing to one who lives in the wilderness, as you well know. Tis nothing I have not experienced before in greater measure. But now that I think of it, our blankets are thin. It will be cold in my tent tonight, all alone."

Hannon's mouth curls upwards, knowing what is to come. "We could ask for permission to invest in thicker blankets," he murmurs, teasing her a little. "Unless you had something else in mind?"

"Perhaps a warm body might be even better?"

Hannon pauses for a moment. Over the last few years, whenever things reached this point, he was bound to immediately lose interest. Sex had grown so routine that even thinking about it seemed tiresome, a waste of time he could better spend doing something productive like hunting or studying the Keeper as she helped to develop Merrill's magic. It wasn't so much that he found it distasteful in any respect, but that he hated being the one exhausting his efforts without receiving anything worthwhile in return. As a man, he was expected to have all the tricks up his sleeves and his hands firmly in control of the reigns when pursuing a woman. But for someone who enjoyed being surprised and having his superiority threatened, this was the very definition of dull. Only a year ago, an offer like Morrigan's would have been tossed aside without a second thought, and he wouldn't have been the worse for it, even though the men may have laughed at him for turning down good sport.

But when the words leave Morrigan's mouth, Hannon remembers how he felt when he first explored this realm many years ago. He feels the excitement again, the anticipation of doing something intimate and audacious, something that reaches the height of physical perfection. He wonders what it will be like—of course he remembers in a technical sense, but he wonders what it will be like in particular with _her_—and desires to know most of all what will come after. He knows it will not make her love him or even force her to take him seriously, but all the same he wonders if this will be the first step in a longer journey. In spite of how unemotionally such an act can be completed, uniting in such a way is never without its repercussions. By agreeing to this, they will both consent to allowing each other to see their vulnerability. Even she, as tough as she is, will have to soften a little and show the unstructured, uncontrolled side of her that she has never before permitted him to see.

"Sounds good to me," he says finally, studying her dark hair as it glittered with moonlight and rustled in the wind. _She really is beautiful_, he thinks to himself. _Beautiful like the earth itself._ Maybe at last he has found someone who will hold his interest, even though it is up in the air as to whether or not he will be able to hold hers.

"Good," she laughs, taking his hands. "Then let us not waste any more time on foolish words."

_And so it begins, _he thinks as he allows himself to be pulled forward, into this old and familiar dance which suddenly seems new and strangely consequential. There are high stakes to this game, and no clear or certain outcome no matter how much faith he places in his own prowess and ability to achieve whatsoever he puts his mind to. But as she pulls him down to the ground with her and roughly begins to feel for his skin and guide his hands along the unknown landscape of her body, he believes with all his heart he has found someone worth investing his bored and dormant heart in, someone at long last worth the winning.

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**Coming Up: **Leliana shares the story of her history as a bard and her ties to Marjolaine with Britomart, and the dwarf learns that things about herself that she has been conditioned to be ashamed of may not be as shameful as she thought.


	32. Britomart: The Hunted and the Hated

**A/N: **Doing chapters like these is one of the reasons I love writing so much. Anything that gets me sniffling with emotion while I'm working on it is a success in my book, even though my uber-sensitivity makes me a fairly easy person to tear up. Creating characters that make me care so much about them is a joy in itself, and I hope my lovely readers feel the same. Enjoy!

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**Thirty-Two. Britomart: The Hunted and the Hated.**

"There is something odd about you," Britomart remarks to Leliana as they sit around the camp fire in the dwindling hours of the evening. Everyone else has turned in for the night, at last resigning themselves to the fact that they will have to find some way to sleep on their thin bedrolls, making do with their even thinner blankets. Zevran had playfully suggested the idea of pairing up in the tents for warmth, but Arlindria, still fresh from her unhappy encounter with Gorim, had looked so upset at the mere mention of intimacy that he quickly revoked his offer and tried to cheer her up with stories about political intrigue in Antiva until she finally called it a night.

Britomart isn't tired at all tonight, and for once she isn't bothered too much by the cold. Her mind is more focused on the fascinating stories Zevran has been telling, and the spies, assassins, minstrels, and bards he had woven in her imagination. Having been a part of the Carta, she knows a thing or two about living in the underworld, and especially how the little distinctions are made between roles and factions, distinctions that might seem trivial to some, but are actually quite significant to those who operate in that world. In Zevran's narrative, Britomart noticed that he had drawn a very thin line between a minstrel and a bard. It was slight, but a line all the same, a separation marked by lacing the art of music with the art of murder.

"Something odd about me?" Leliana echoes innocently. She, too, has shown little indication of being tired. She strikes Britomart as being the kind of person who doesn't need sleep to be energetic, or at least finds sleep so hard to grasp that she no longer bothers to reach for it. She is like Dulcia in that respect; perhaps she is also haunted by dark memories like Dulcia's which keep her awake at night and make her wary of giving into unconsciousness when she believes she may very well wake to find a murderer's blade at her throat.

"I can't imagine what you mean," Leliana continues, already looking amused at the direction of this exchange. "Since it is you making the accusation, perhaps you wish to tease me about my love for the Chantry again?"

"No, not that this time," Britomart murmurs, distracted by her own thoughts. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you mentioned that you were a minstrel before finding peace in the Chant of Lunatics, right?"

"I believe the proper phrase is 'Chant of Light,' but you are correct otherwise."

"And minstrels are poet-musician types who compose pretty little songs and sing along to them accompanied by their instruments?"

"You have a way of making the most natural things seem trite. But yes, once again you are correct. I would often write songs about the Orlesian court and play them on my lute. If it weren't so late at night, I would be happy to perform one for you."

Britomart folds her arms across her chest and glares into the fire, suddenly annoyed with Leliana's show of innocence. "I'm not buying it," she says plainly, shaking her head. "You may have gotten away with that story before when I didn't know anything about your system, but I won't believe you anymore now that Zevran's stories have given you away. You fight with a grace and finesse even I would be hard pressed to match, and I've been trained as a fighter ever since I was strong enough to pick up a sword. That's not the sort of technique you would have if all you did with your life was write music and sing. It's all a cover, isn't it? Performing was what you did on the surface, but you're actually a bard. Before all the silly Chantry business, you were really knee deep in the spying underworld!"

Leliana sighs to herself and looks confused as to how to proceed. "You seem delighted by the prospect," she says finally. "Zevran gave you quite a romantic image of the bard order, did he not?"

"Zevran has a special way of spinning stories, true, but it's more than that. Don't forget that I grew up in Orzammar, which has layers upon layers of political intrigue. On the top you have Lady Aeducan's world, which was never much of an option for a duster like me to get involved in, but you also have the deshyrs, the different castes jockeying for position, and the Carta. I was a part of the Carta, and even though your average noble dwarf would call us scum of the earth, that didn't mean they wouldn't use us when it became necessary for them to gain leverage through less legal means. So of course I'm delighted by the prospect of you being a bard. I find this side of you of much more interest than the part of you who plays at devoutness and virtue." She takes a deep breath, chancing in an opinion that is somewhat beneath her to make, given her own lack of insight as to her proper place in the world. "I would even say that this side of you is who you really are, at heart. The Leliana I see taking risks and whetting her blade seems much more alive to me than the Leliana who speaks with an almost forced enthusiasm about her faith."

"So you may say," Leliana says unemotionally, only her eyes revealing any sense of conflict. "But I tired of that life quickly. When I found myself in Ferelden and took shelter in the Chantry, I decided I never wanted to go back. My real life is the one I have made here. Everything else is the past."

"Hmm," Britomart says gruffly. "It was my mistake, then, for taking you for an annoyance rather than a fool. In the past? What a horrible way of dismissing something that was once important to you. I could say the same thing about the Carta, but that wouldn't change the fact that I am who I am today because I was a part of that life. It's in our blood, Leliana. You can't pretend it never happened just because you've distanced yourself from it. It's still on the other side of the distance. And no matter how much time passes, it will always be there."

Leliana looks up at Britomart in surprise. "I would not have expected you to lecture me. As someone who has made a point to distance herself from others as well as her own heart, I thought you might understand why I would choose to do the same."

"I am not proud of the way I behave. I act this way because this is how I have taught to be, but you are not like me at all. You are well aware of who the women is behind your façade, and have willingly chosen not to reveal her."

Leliana is silent for a moment, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her chin upon them as she gazes unseeingly into the fire. "I was being hunted," she says at length, long past the point Britomart would have expected her to answer. "I was betrayed by someone I trusted, someone who was a mentor and most beloved friend. Marjolaine. She was the one who trained me to be what I am. The fighting skills you admire so much in me first originated under her tutelage."

"She was a bard as well?"

"Yes. And she was much better, much more adept than I would ever be. I was beholden to her, and would have done anything for her had she asked it of me. But in one of my last missions as a bard, I discovered correspondence from her that indicated she was working as spy against Orlais, spilling national secrets across the borders and into the hands of enemies. My loyalty was foremost to her rather than Orlais, so I did not scold her for that particular aspect of what she was doing. I only feared for her with all my heart, and that was what drove me to tell her what I knew."

"I trust she did not take it well?"

"She did at the time. She told me that things weren't as they seemed, and she was in no danger because she wasn't truly at fault anymore. That it was in the past, and that's why the letters needed to be disposed of. I should have doubted her then. A bard is trained to spot liars, and even the best delivered of falsehoods should be as clear as day to us. But I let my feelings for her cloud my judgment. So when Orlesian authorities came to arrest me with evidence that I had been the one to write those letters and betray the Orlesian secrets, I was blindsided. Never had I thought she would frame me when all I had ever done was honor and love her!"

"Now this is a story that I know well enough for my own experiences," Britomart nods, feeling a sudden wave of pity for Leliana, who is turning out to be a more impressive figure than she ever would have expected. "Such people do not stop with a simple arrest. They had you tortured, didn't they? All because of what she did?"

"It was a traitor's punishment I received, one that should by all rights have fallen to her. If it wasn't for the skills I had picked up over the years, I would have never escaped to make it to Ferelden and Lothering. I suppose I must at least be grateful to Marjolaine for that much."

"Do not be grateful to her for anything," Britomart quips. "Praising the hands that would kill you will only place them back around your neck all the sooner."

In her mind, Britomart attempts to conjure an image of Marjolaine. She tries to imagine a temptress, a she-devil in disguise, but only one face comes to her mind, and it isn't one that fits any of these terms. It is a soft face, pale with a slim nose and pouty lips, framed on both sides with wavy brown curls that stray away from the pins she bound them in. There is a guilty smile on this face, and when she speaks, she leaves her words of betrayal kindly. _I don't want to hurt you like this, but I'm finished playing this game. We had our fun, but I refuse to take this abuse on my own shoulders for something you brought down upon me, upon yourself. This is your problem now. I don't want to be a part of it anymore._

Britomart shivers, pushing the memory aside, though somewhat unsuccessfully. "When you say you loved her, what did you mean?" she whispers, almost as if she is addressing herself. In fact, she is quite surprised when Leliana is the one who answers the question when a part of her had half expected her heart for once to break its silence and give her the answer she wanted to hear.

"What does anyone ever mean when they say they love someone else? There is no simple answer to what I felt. Ask instead if I would have been happy if she had chosen me above all others and trusted me with the same devoted reverence I gave to her. The answer to that is yes. That would have been the greatest happiness I could have felt. Perhaps the harshest injury she left upon me was not that she feigned friendship towards me, but that she went so far as to feign love."

"So you too, huh?" Britomart says quietly. "All this time and you were just like me. But you declare it with no shame, as if it is a fact you have no fear of. How is that possible? How can you be like me, but yet wear it so proudly?"

Leliana does not answer immediately, but studies Britomart with a knowing expression on her face. After a long moment she reaches out to place her hand over Britomart's, squeezing it gently in a gesture of comfort.

"Who you are speaks in everything you do, Britomart, and it reflects an inner beauty that I do not think you want others to see. And yes, I'm very much like you. I sensed it in you in the beginning, but I did not think you wished to speak of it. The person you loved already had someone else she cared for, yes?"

"If you're speaking about Lady Aeducan, I don't feel that way about her," Britomart quickly interrupts. "But do not speak of these things so lightly, as if they are in any way acceptable. I've suffered enough for doing the same thing in the past."

"What do you mean? In the place you come from it is not a charming little oddity that surprises people but only to the point where they lift an eyebrow and brush it off? That is how it is in Orlais and Antiva, as well as certain parts of Ferelden as I understand it."

Britomart sinks to her knees, her head spinning uncontrollably as if she is drunk. "Then it was a lie, then. Everything they told me was a lie. And I believed what they said! I suffered so many years for nothing more than a stupid, stupid lie!"

"Britomart? What happened? You look so pained, as if a wound is opening."

"There was a girl," she chokes out, feeling almost as if her throat is closing on her. "She lived nearby my family in Dust Town. We were good friends, but for me it was always something special. She was small and delicate for a dwarf, and I found everything about her so tempting and sweet, from her beauty to the way she took my hand as we wandered together through the streets. I couldn't help myself when I was around her. I wanted to touch her so badly that I couldn't think about anything else when I was with her, and even when I was alone. It was like a disease that I just couldn't be cured of. At one point, I begged her to let me be with her, even if she couldn't return my feelings. I thought it didn't matter. If I could just have her attention, the parts of her that called out to me, it would all be enough. But once it happened, it just got even worse. I wanted so much to be loved by her, that I would have done anything to make her happy. I was becoming so obvious that everyone else started to notice. My sister, my mother, my boss, all my friends. I thought it was okay because they all had been in love once, too, but it ended up being..." She feels a sob rising in her chest, and she forces it back. "It was humiliating."

She covers her face with her hands for a moment, unable to speak. Leliana presses a hand against her back and waits for her to continue.

"My sister tried to explain the matter delicately, that I had done nothing wrong, but people looked down on that kind of thing as being unnatural, especially when it was between women. But… but I didn't believe her. It was just love. I wasn't hurting anyone. I was just in love for the first time, and I didn't know what to do with myself." She draws her hands away from her face and pounds them into the ground. "But it didn't matter. They called me a freak. They would throw rocks at me in the streets and call me all sorts of horrible names. They said what I was doing was equivalent to spitting on the faces of the ancestors because I was acting as if the continuation of our race and the upholding of tradition didn't matter to me. If I ever did it again, they said they would imprison me in the Carta dungeons until I had learned my lesson. The girl I was in love with was so scared that she told me that we hand to end things, and that she never wanted to see me again. And I was afraid, too. Afraid, but I couldn't show it. So I just started being more hateful to the people who hated me so I could drown them out. So everyone would know that I wasn't weak, even though a twisted heart beat inside me."

"You poor dear," Leliana sighs, wrapping her arms around Britomart's shoulder. "A heart of love is a blessed thing. How could they have ever made you believe differently? The thing that twisted it was the hatred you let into it, the faith you lost in yourself. You should never be ashamed for a moment to be who your heart tells you to be. You should embrace it in all you do, and sing praise to the hands that made you so loving and strong. Is it not more of an insult to the ancestors to claim that the best of the virtues the Stone granted you are in actuality aberrations?"

"I don't know," Britomart whispers, balling her hands into the dirt. "I don't want to question myself anymore. I don't want to go through that pain again. I just want to be normal."

"Ah, but Britomart, don't you see? You said so yourself." Leliana places a finger underneath Britomart's chin and lifts it so their eyes are finally meeting. "That isn't who you are, in your heart. And normal is such a dirty word, yes? Where's the fun in normal, hmm? Where's the intrigue, the life in that?"

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**Coming Up: **Dulcia asks Alistair about his prior sex life, and Alistair unsuccessfully turns to Alain for advice on licking lampposts in winter.


	33. Dulcia and Alain: Lampposts

**A/N: **Time to take a break from all the seriousness as Alistair explores the birds and bees and Alain is left to help him sort out his inexperience in spite of his own lack of knowledge. Who knew Dulcia could stir up so much trouble with a simple question? Enjoy!

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**Thirty-Three. Dulcia and Alain: Lampposts.**

"Since you were raised in the Chantry, have you never…?"

Dulcia trails off, lifting an eyebrow suggestively. Now that her relationship with Alistair is more clearly defined, and he's on his way to moving past his unfortunate stage of causing her endless worry regarding his mental health and well-being, it has become easier for her to engage in this sort of teasing banter with him, which she had missed when their situation had turned too serious for jokes. Even though she is earnest in her query of wanting to know his past, every side of him that he has not yet shown to her, she is eager to see this conversation take a jagged path, one that will allow her to toy with him and allow him to exercise his own wit in return.

"Never what?" he asks, though she can tell by the coy look in his eyes that he understands what she means. The subject of the Chantry and its laws of chastity has been a popular subject among the Wardens and their companions as the day they set out for the Circle Tower to find a cure for Connor draws closer. Alixire in particular has spent much of her time being needled by both Zevran and Hannon about her Templar lover and whether or not he'd 'cheated on the Maker' for her sake. Alixire had simply laughed and said that their first kiss was only minutes before she'd left the Circle to join the Wardens. She'd always planned to charm him out of his straight-laced, good boy ways, but fate had intervened before she had the chance.

"You know what I mean," Dulcia says, nodding to the Templar shield he is polishing as they talk.

"I'm not sure that I do. Never seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?"

"Now you're making fun of me." She gives him the look she'd perfected with her father and brother when she was a child, her eyes closed slightly to accentuate the length of her eyelashes, her lips softened into a pout, her arms folded firmly across her chest. Her father had once said it was nearly impossible to scold her; one of her sad and sorry little gazes was all it took to have the world at her feet and wrapped around her little finger.

"Make fun of you, dear lady? Perish the thought. I think you are the one looking for a way to tease me, but I will not succumb." He lifts his own eyebrow, mimicking her earlier look. "Have _you _ever licked a lamppost in winter?"

"Once, in the spirit of defiance at having been warned against it all my life, and I learned my lesson well enough to use sounder reasoning before trying it again."

"Sounder reasoning? Is there even a way to reason out such a silly thing?" He laughs and sets his shield aside for a moment. "I myself never had the pleasure. Not that I never thought about it, of course."

"A virgin, then? How cute. I wasn't sure if you'd be one to take your vows seriously or not."

"It's not so much that I took them seriously… it's more like that the Chantry wasn't the ideal place for those sorts of things to happen. In any case, I was raised to be a gentleman, and to be more respectful than aggressive in the presence of a beautiful woman such as yourself. And that isn't such a bad thing, is it?"

"Not at all. In fact, it's rather sweet. You seem like the type to sincerely treasure who you're with, and that's not something you find in every man. Most would just go straight for the kill, and then walk away with the blood still fresh on their hands." She pauses for a moment, looking suddenly serious. "Or maybe I'm just thinking of myself."

"You?"

"No. It's nothing." She laughs lightly to herself, running her fingers through his hair. "But I'm glad in a way. This will just make it all the more easier for me to monopolize you."

"But what if I wanted to be the one to monopolize you?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. If that's what you wanted, you've already managed that long ago."

0o0o0o0o0o

Alain is sitting by the fire whittling away at a fallen branch when Alistair finds him. He's used to this by now; for some unfathomable reason, Alistair has singled him out as the best outlet to describe whatever's going on between Dulcia and himself at the moment. Alain doesn't mind this, exactly, though he's never certain what he's supposed to say when Alistair asks him whether girls prefer courtly romance or something less chaste. He tries his best to keep his answers vague and flexible, but sometimes he worries that his random words of wisdom will eventually lead Alistair to make a stupid mistake in his pursuit of Dulcia.

Tonight, however, Alistair seems to have other things on his mind. "Alain," he asks, wringing his hands nervously. "Have you ever, um, licked a lamppost in winter?"

Alain stills his knife for a moment, trying to figure out how this question is any way relevant. He knows Alistair has a quirky sense of humor, but his other jokes have at least attempted to sound sensible.

"There aren't any in the Alienage," he says finally, hoping Alistair won't be too disappointed that he didn't even try to guess a punch line. "We used torches."

"Oh, um, that's not what I meant. It was a euphemism."

"For what?" Alain can only think of one thing, but he doesn't think it's what Alistair has in mind. Based on his hobby of asking him for relationship advice, he doubts Alistair has Zevran's same theory about his romantic preferences.

"Well… it's for sex," Alistair admits sheepishly. "Dulcia and I were just talking about it, and it seems she has a little experience where I have absolutely none. I'm just worried that… if it ever gets to the point where, you know, _things_… start happening, I won't have any idea what to do. I really care about her, and I don't want to make her feel uncomfortable or embarrass her or myself. That's the last thing I want." He sighs and glances at her from across the camp. "You have to help me, Alain. I need some sort of advice from someone who has done this before!"

"But I haven't," Alain says, resuming his knife work.

"What do you mean you haven't?"

"No lampposts in winter for me."

"Are you kidding me? Someone as good looking and nice as you? I thought women like the strong, silent type."

"Maybe you should ask Hannon for advice."

"Hannon? But's he's licking the lamppost with Morrigan! I don't want to hear anything about that."

"There's always Zevran."

"He'd just tease me for being a virgin, and then give me incredibly nasty tips only someone like him would ever consider. That's why you were the one I wanted to ask. What am I supposed to do now?"

"Is it that important? Dulcia is a nice person. She'd be okay with you figuring out as you went along."

"But she's already done it with someone. What if I'm not as good? What if I'm so bad that she'll want to go back to whoever he is?"

"If she only likes you for that, then that's the least of your worries."

"I understand that, but it's important to me that she's as happy as she can possibly be. She's done so much for me, and all I want is to give back everything she's given on my behalf."

Alain sighs, at last relenting. "Zevran has a copy of that book the Chantry banned. _The Art of Passionate Love_. I'm sure you can pick up a thing or two from that, if you're serious."

"_That_ book? Hmm… I suppose that could work. Not that I'm interested in asking Zevran for it. He'd die of laughter, and then make sure everyone else in the camp knew all about it. You two are close. Can't you get it from him for me? If I'm the one who asks, he'll know it's about Dulcia. But if it's you, he won't have any assumptions about who has driven you to read it."

"Oh, he'll have his assumptions," Alain grumbles, at last tossing aside his handiwork. "Are you sure you need me to do this?"

"Pretty please, Alain? I'll make it up to you."

"Fine. But if this goes the way I think it will, the price will be higher than you think."

0o0o0o0o0o0o

"_The Art of Passionate Love_?" Zevran crows, his mouth widening into a toothy grin. "Do my ears deceive me?"

"Just hand it over, please," Alain says quietly, his ears turning pink.

"Hand it over, just like that? I think not, my Grey Warden. You've been thinking about our conversation the other day, haven't you?"

"That's not what this is for."

"Oh? You read these things because you are bored? Because you need something to help you fall asleep?"

"No."

"Then it must mean you have questions only this book can answer. If you want to know, it would be much more pleasant if you just asked me yourself. Or better yet…"

"Zevran…" Alain holds out his hand, waiting for the book.

"Ah, yes. But you are too shy. Such a shame. Very well, you can borrow the book. But I look forward to witnessing the results of your study one day, just so you know."

Alain takes the tome and quickly walks away before Zevran can insinuate anything else. As he passes Dulcia's tent, he scowls and turns his face away so she can't see. Much as he respects her, he wishes that sometimes she would just keep her silly questions to herself.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **Alain meets Isabela during the Warden's detour to the Pearl, and receives an offer that he wants to refuse, but Zevran possibly can't.


	34. Alain: A Step Down a New Path

**A/N: **I am reaching the special time in every English major's life when all the major essays for the semester are due during the same week. Hooray! If I disappear for a little bit, there's your reason. However, being the literature loving writing freak that I am, what will probably happen is I'll sit down and pump them out gleefully in one night. We'll just have to wait and see. As for Alain's new installment, I hope you enjoy!

0o0o0o0o0o0

**Thirty-Four. Alain: A Step Down a New Path.**

To someone like Alain, the Pearl is a baffling place.

It's not so much the rampant prostitution that gets to him—those people need to put bread on the table, just like everyone else—but rather the utter vulgarity of the clientele that this brothel attracts. Every slick and sweaty face he sees reminds him vaguely of Vaughan, and it sickens him to be amongst the type of person who would most likely resort to doing the same unforgivable thing that had once been done to Shianni if they happened to run out of the proper coin to pay the madam at the brothel.

The people they've been sent to kick out are little better, though they feign nobility and prestige as they sit around and order drinks, filling the barroom area with their coarse chatter and laughter. For being trained killers, they seem to possess very few of the essential traits his mother had used to define the ideal mercenary during his years under her tutelage. First of all, they are helpless squawkers, boasting the name of their company every other minute and wearing it like a banner across their chests. If someone in the Pearl had any reason to hold a grudge against these people, they'd know immediately to seek out the White Falcon Mercenaries, not to mention that they would also be perfectly knowledgeable of the location of their exact base of operations as well as the full name of their commander. Then, on top of all of that, they are so drunk that they can barely lift up their swords without dropping them, and are additionally here to show complete strangers the sort of helpless vulnerability that naturally comes along with having sex. Nevermind the fact that they are pumping out decent coin for this whole ordeal, paying for the privilege of having the worst of their weaknesses on display.

_It's almost as if they're wearing signs saying 'Kill me' around their necks, _Alain thinks to himself in disgust. _And the worst part is, we're not even allowed to give them what's coming to them._

There is one oddity inside the Pearl aside from himself and his fellow Wardens. She doesn't appear to be here for sex—although Alain is hardly a judge of these things, he's come to realize—but there is something blatantly sexual about her nonetheless, from her short, bust accentuating dress, to her highly visible and muscular thighs. But it is her warrior-like qualities that interest Alain and make her seem so strangely situated in a place like this. Unlike the White Falcons, she is sober and composed, her eyes sharp and calculating as they scan the room with an almost chilly detachment. Earlier she and her small company of men had been harassed by a group of sellswords, and she had dispatched with them so quickly that Alain had barely even noticed a conflict was unfolding. He is not one to be easily impressed, but the way she fights is so similar to his mother's style that he feels a pang of nostalgia when watching her. She is brutal in the same way he was trained to be brutal, displaying no signs of weakness while doing that which needed to be done, giving nothing of herself and keeping her private affairs and emotions her own.

As if she feels his eyes upon her, the woman turns to meet his gaze and smiles with all the sweetness of a tiger licking its lips. He takes a step back and looks away. This is the exact sort of feminine cunning his mother had warned him against, once upon a time. Whatever it is she wants—be it sex or something else—there is some sort of feral desire in her eyes, something that even Alain is no match against. He knows nothing of the wants of women, and the existence of these unknown wants terrifies him. He does not like to be asked for things he cannot give, or worse, coerced into things he does not fully understand, such as he almost had in his betrothal to Nesiara.

The woman crosses the room and sidles next to him, her predator-like expression unchanging as she pulls up a chair and fixes her gaze onto him. "Are you sure you've come to the right place, sweet thing?" she asks when he doesn't say anything. "You look lost, like an innocent Chantry sister stumbling through a den of thieves. This is your first time doing something like this, that's plain as day."

"I'm not here for _that_," Alain says wearily. For someone who never thought anything about intimacy, he is sure hearing more than his share about it of late. "We came here for a job."

"Which you completed quite neatly. People who come to this sort of place aren't interested in seeing blood stains covering the floor. Ruins the mood."

"Didn't stop you from drawing a little blood there earlier."

"I gave those boys every opportunity to leave before it came to that. It's not my fault that most men don't know the first thing about listening." She toys with the golden bracelets encircling the dark skin of her wrists. "I was watching you earlier when you dealt with those men. I hate to be blunt, but there is something markedly odd about you. Might you be a Grey Warden?"

Alain nods, wondering if she saw the wanted posters littering Denerim with the poor sketch of Arlindria and the in-depth descriptions of himself and the others.

"I have met some of your kind before, and there's just something about you that is out of place. And I do not mean that to be an insult, before you go take offense and start barking at me. I've simply observed over the years that you are distant from what other people are, and behave in the most unexpected ways. And as for you, I find you especially strange." She cocks her head, her smile growing. "There is something alluring to your innocence. A virgin is hardly a rare thing, but one already so cold and jaded without having ever been bothered by sex? Whoever has you first, sweet thing, will be lucky. You are a treasure that a crooked adventurer like me would just love to get their hands on."

_She's just like Zevran, _Alain thinks in amazement. _But why me? There is nothing special about what I am. If you took two steps into the Alienage, you'd find people just like me, people without intimacy or joy, but knowledgeable of the cold reality that the world is not a loving place where safety and contentment can be found._

As if reading his thoughts, she purses her lips and considers him. "Everyone wants to do the things that are impossible," she explains, pressing her hand against his cheek. "Finding the fountain of youth, scaling the tallest mountains, sailing unscathed through the fiercest storms. And every look on your face says to me that you won't be tamed easily or be impressed by just anyone. After issuing such a challenge, who wouldn't be interested in winning such an elusive prize? I'll gladly make an offer to you right now to leave your companions for a bit and get to know me better, but the fact that I know you'll refuse me only boils my blood to find a way to make you cave."

"Tempting as ever, Isabela," Zevran's voice says from behind them. Alain turns his head to see the elf leaning against the wall, watching them in amusement. "But he won't do it."

Isabela's eyes widen, and her smile grows more pleasant. "Zev? Is that you? Goodness, I was wondering when our paths would cross again. We had such nice fun that last time, didn't we?"

Alain's blood seems to stop coursing through his veins. _Oh_, he thinks, closing his eyes. _It was like that_. Of course it was. After all, Zevran has never shied away from speaking of his endless list of conquests, both women and men. But it had been different before. They were just words, unformed shapes in Alain's imagination, a meaningless parade of nameless strangers. But now in front of him is someone real. A woman with a name, Isabela. Someone he could become one day if he lets himself give into Zevran. He'd join the list alongside Isabela, and one day he may even be in her very same position, witnessing him with another conquest and interrupting it with talk of the good old days that had long passed.

Alain's heart throbs again, like it had when he first suspected he was being trifled with. He does not enjoy this feeling, though he doesn't even know what to call it. Possessiveness? Jealousy? Resignation that he does not belong in the world of these people, the world of flings and dalliances, where notches on bedposts are carefully documented but are meaningless, where treasure is discovered and then promptly tossed back out to sea?

_I am kidding myself if I think I'll find anything for me here, _he realizes slowly. _Even if I learn what love really is, I'll be left to endure it on my own._

"Whatever fun was had doesn't excuse the fact that you're butting in on a stake I've already claimed," Zevran says, nodding towards Alain. "If you're looking to wet your whistle, you'll have to go elsewhere."

"I should have known you wouldn't be one to ignore such a delectable challenge. If you're so adamant about having a piece, you're welcome to join us. In fact, you were such a treat last time, that I'll jump at the chance for another taste."

Alain slides off his chair and edges away from Isabela. "This doesn't have to involve me," he mutters flatly.

"But you're the icing on the cake. Zev will do, but you're the thing that will make this business truly interesting."

"It's not business," he says softly, shaking his head. "If that's what it is, I'm not interested. Go on without me."

As he tries to walk away, Zevran snatches his elbow and holds him back. "I see that look in your eyes," he murmurs so Isabela cannot hear. "You have something you wish to say to me, yes?"

"…no."

"Be honest. You are a closed book, but there are some things even you cannot hide. You don't want me to go with her."

"What you do is not my concern."

"But it bothers you. And it's not in my interest to lose a prime catch for the sake of a small fish I've already reeled in before. I won't go if you don't want me to."

"I'm not a fish. Or a prize. Or anything. If you want to play a game, you shouldn't be with someone who takes these things seriously."

"True. Perhaps it is a game. But I was serious when I said that my fancy for you is greater than what I had for anyone else at the moment. And the fact that you're jealous tells me that this fancy isn't entirely one sided."

"Jealous," Alain echoes, his voice tightening.

"You know, that feeling that you get where you want to push Isabela off her bar stool because she's trying to divert my interest in you. That jealousy. Maybe it's the first time you've felt it before."

Alain says nothing. Jealousy is a weakness worse than anything he's ever shown before. He can't be feeling this way. Whatever is happening and changing in him, he can't allow himself to stray down these dangerous paths. _Those weaknesses, that voice is only for the person who deserves to hear it_, his mother's voice reminds him. _Every little bit of yourself that you've been saving is only for the person you love._

"I don't have to be involved in this," he says again. _I can't fall in love with someone who will never love me. I can't. That is a foolish mistake I'm above making. It's an error only someone incompetent would fall to. _

"You say that, but you're already involved, my Grey Warden," Zevran says knowingly. "And if you don't want me to go, I'll stay right here. You were the one who put my life in your hands, and now it's yours to do with what you will. But know that if you tell me to stay, I'll take it to mean that the reason you don't wish for me to share this moment with her is because you want it for yourself. Because it belongs to you."

Alain opens his mouth and shuts in again, glancing first at Isabela and then back at Zevran. _This isn't my concern, _he tells himself rationally, but for the first time, his logic isn't strong enough to drive his actions. He has always ignored his wants because he does not understand them, but maybe they were never meant to be understood. Maybe wants exist to defy rationality, but are meant to be given into in any case, simply for the reason that they achieve an end and can sate something inside that cannot be satisfied by anything else.

He doesn't know. Maybe he never will. But if he doubts himself for any longer, his true voice will never be heard by anyone, his special weaknesses will never be shown to someone who can appreciate and respect them for what they are. Love is still a question mark in his mind, but maybe the fact that a part of him wants Zevran to see these things means something. If not love, perhaps still a step closer to it than he's ever been in his life. And if he does not take this step, he'll never reach it. If he does not ask and ask now, he'll never know.

"Don't go," Alain says finally, his voice sounding thick and emotional in ways that it has never sounded before. "The next time belongs to me."

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **Alixire had always anticipated mending her tenuous relationship with Cullen upon returning to the Circle, but what can she do when her home is destroyed and her beloved is nowhere to be found?


	35. Alixire: Coming Home to Roost

**A/N: **Essays are going well, so time for a new chapter :) We're back on to the main plot for the time being, this time taking a break from Redcliffe to tackle the Broken Circle. And we all know what that means... CULLEN!

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Thirty-Five. Alixire: Coming Home to Roost.**

Alixire has very few memories of her childhood from the time before she left for the Circle Tower, but there are certain flashes that come to her from time to time when she least expects them to. The sound of her mother's voice, the smooth texture of her father's hair beneath her hands, the ornate design of the Orlesian rug she used to nap on in front of the fireplace, the blue eyes of a nameless neighbor, the grassy scent of a childhood friend. These memories are blurred and incomplete, but yet so evocative and tender that she does not doubt their reality and pass them off as wistful fabrications of a time she will never get back. It is her belief that they come to her for a reason, to remind her of the importance of the things she has unlearned or forgotten over the years. Though often she does not understand the memories at the time they come to her or realize their proper place in the puzzle that maps her heart, she always feels the wiser for these recollections, if only because they represent a happiness and innocence that she wishes she still had.

As she looks up at Circle Tower jutting from the murky waters of the Lake Calenhad docks, another memory strikes Alixire's mind like lightning, sharp and searing. She is sitting in her room in her family's manor, setting out seed for her pet bird Clio, a gift from her grandfather. It was fashionable at the time for noblewomen to keep songbirds, though Alixire herself never understood the novelty. Clio had been a pretty companion with a lovely voice, but there was little comfort to be found in her small and feathery body and expressionless eyes. Alixire would have much rather been given a mabari, but this was an unlikely thing to hope for, given the fact that her family believed that war hounds belonged to soldiers on the battlefield, not delicate little girls. Birds were clearly the more becoming option, especially since they could be set off by ornate cages inlaid with jewels and stunning metalwork.

As Alixire opens the birdcage to slide the little bowl of seed in, Clio jolts awake and lifts her long unused wings to propel herself outside the open door. Alixire at first drops the bowl in surprise, but then recovers and watches gleefully as her bird circuits the room, at last finding its way outside her open window. _Good for you, Clio, _she remembers herself thinking. _Get going. This isn't a place for a bird like you to be. I don't need you here to be happy._

But later, after accidentally leaving her window ajar for the rest of the evening, she returns to find Clio perched once again on the makeshift swing hung from the top of the cage, her little head resting sleepily on her puffed out chest. The cage's door still hangs open, and Alixire decides to leave it that way for the time being. Maybe Clio hadn't understood the significance of her escape, but given another opportunity, she may fly off to her freedom for good and forget about the beautiful and confining cage that is her home.

But it never happens. Day after day little Alixire leaves the door open for Clio, and day after day Clio flies out into the room and sometimes into the open world, but always, always she comes back to her familiar perch when evening comes, folding her wings and falling asleep behind the bars of the world that had been forced upon her but she somehow inexplicably feels at home within.

_Such a foolish thing, _little Alixire thinks. _Why would you come back, Clio? Don't you realize that you can be free if you leave this place? That you can fly with your brothers and sisters and sing your songs to your friends?_

But now, looking back on this memory years later, a part of Alixire understands Clio. As much as a part of her hates her own cage, the Circle Tower, it was always inevitable that she would come back. Cullen had once thought her ties too fragile for her to ever consider returning to it once she had flown away, but the truth is that her roots are deeper into this place then they are anywhere else. Her joy, her sorrow, her blood, her bitterness, her heart and soul are invested into this place, as cold and unfeeling as it is. A part of her belongs here as much as the rest of her belongs to her new world with the Wardens. He is here, after all. And if he still loves her as she hopes he does, he is waiting.

0o0o0o0o0o

As soon as they had arrived to the docks, she had sought out Kester, the old ferryman who shuttles visitors and emissaries to and from the Circle Tower. He had remembered her from the one time they had interacted after her recruitment and subsequent removal from the Circle, and passed along his surprise and pleasure that she was still alive. "A few mages came back from the battlefield at Ostagar, and reported that all the Wardens were dead," he'd said, pressing a hand over his heart as a sign of mourning to the fallen. "Everyone up in that place thought you were gone, and I've never seen such sad faces in all my days. The First-Enchanter was beside himself, and all the mages collapsed into tears. Even the Templars looked broken up, and that's saying something."

He'd then gone on to tell her that there was something amiss in the Tower, and that he had consequently been relieved of his post for the time being. One of the Templars had taken his place, and he had been expressly forbidden to let anyone approach the Circle for some reason or another.

When she is finished reflecting on Clio and gazing upon the distant shape of her home, Alixire gathers the others together and leads them to long dock where a small fleet of rowboats are tied for those who seek passage. To her dismay, Templar Carroll is the one in charge of manning the ships in the place of Kester. She'd never been particularly fond of him—but then again, who was?—and found him to be as unloving to mages as the Knight-Commander but without the intelligence or wit to make him bearable.

"Ser Carroll," Alixire says, not even bothering to keep her voice from sounding pained at having to address him. "Kester tells me that we need to request your permission for a boat across Lake Calenhad to reach the Circle. If you would be so good as to escort us to speak with the First Enchanter?"

"I was told not to let anyone through," Carroll says automatically, straightening his posture and looking solemn so that it is clear to them that he is dutifully following his orders. "The Circle is unable to receive visitors at the time being under the orders of the Knight-Commander."

"We're here on Grey Warden business. Our treaty with the Circle Tower grants us immediate audience with the First Enchanter, especially during times of Blight."

"A Grey Warden, huh?" Carroll eyes her skeptically. "You don't look like one. Prove it."

Alixire blinks. "Ser Carroll, you were present at my recruitment. Don't you remember? Jowan stabbing himself and the Knight-Commander asking you to lock up me and Lily… ringing any bells?"

"But how do I know that you actually became a Warden? Who's to say you didn't flunk the test?" He narrows her eyes and studies her. "Besides, everyone knows you're dead."

"Really. And here I thought coming back as an undead would fool you. How silly of me." She digs through her pack and pulls out the treaty entrusted to her. "Here you go. A real, authentic Grey Warden document for you to feast upon."

"Papers! Well, I've got some papers, too. They say I'm the Queen of Antiva! What do you have to say to that?"

"Are all unassuming guardsmen in Ferelden secretly female monarchs in disguise?" Arlindra wonders. "Or just idiots?"

"The latter, definitely." Alixire places her hands on her hips, seething in annoyance. "Very well, Ser Carroll. Let's resolve this the hard way. Tell me what I can do for you—within reason—and once your back is thoroughly scratched, take us across. I don't have the leisure to tarry here with fools like you."

"Still the sharp tongued little spitfire, eh? I have a feeling that the Knight-Commander will be less than thrilled to see you again, but if the gift you give me is good enough, I suppose a little chastisement is negligible. Now, let's see… I happen to be in the mood for something sweet right now. I'd like to have either those cookies the giant is eating, or else that pretty woman in the back with the dark curls. Whichever you can bear to part with."

Alixire turns around, smiling wryly. "What say you, Dulcia?"

"To my unending sorrow, Ser Carroll, the fact that I have a lover among this group will prevent our passion from unfolding for today," Dulcia says with mock earnestness.

"Sten, how about you? Will you give up the cookies?"

Sten emits a long suffering sigh and throws them to Alixire. "If it keeps this fool from saying anything more."

"Don't worry about it. I'll buy you more next time we're in Redcliffe." Alixire hands over the bag of baked goods to Carroll in exchange for her treaty. "Now take us to see the First Enchanter. My patience is wearing thin."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Upon arriving to the Tower, Alixire is surprised to find what looks like a Templar camp set up on the ground floor. Usually that particular area is set aside as a reception room for visitors, and is for the most part kept fairly empty except for the obligatory Templars left to guard the door from any mages wishing to escape. But now it seems as if at least a third of the Templars deployed in the Tower have taken up residence in the cramped room, their faces looking hollow and harried as if they have a greater burden on their minds than gazing lazily at the busy mages.

"So you've come back," Knight-Commander Greagoir says heavily when he sees Alixire and company walking through the door. "I had my suspicions you weren't dead when Wynne told us you weren't with the Wardens on the battlefield, but were kept back in the infirmary. It seems the Maker has seen fit to bless you twice over, Miss Amell. First in keeping you alive at Ostagar, and then in having kept you away from the Tower long enough to escape the things that have been unleashed here."

"Unleashed? What has happened here, Knight-Commander?"

Alixire and her companions listen silently as Greagoir shares his dark tale of how Uldred had sundered the Veil in the Tower and given all manner of demons and abominations leave to possess and corrupt mages and Templars alike. The Templars had locked the door on everyone lest those who had managed to survive and escape the mage quarters succumb to the threat as well, taking away the last hope of redemption for the Tower. However, the fact that all the survivors in the room are Templars alerts Alixire to the knowledge that they are not, in fact, waiting for redemption in the sense that the mages would be. She knows even before the words leave Greagoir's lips that what he is truly awaiting is the Right of Annulment.

"I refuse," Alixire says immediately after the Knight-Commander has finished speaking. "My companions are largely Grey Wardens, and those who are not, have special skills in their own right. We will go in and clear out the demons for you. I will not consent to the demise of my people under any circumstances."

"Think of what you're saying, girl!" Greagoir cries out, forgetting to address her in the proper manner. "As a mage, you should know more than anyone the threat behind those doors. Demons will not give you reprieve just because you're a Warden, and I cannot let every single remaining Warden in Ferelden to risk their lives to a lost cause. No, the Tower is lost. Nothing can be done."

"I insist," Alixire says firmly. "These people are like brothers and sisters to me. If they die, I will never forgive myself and my powerlessness." She turns to her companions, begging their assistance. "Please!"

"Of course," Alain says, stepping forward. "This sword has killed all manner of things. I fear nothing from them."

"If I can learn about these creatures I have only witnessed in legend, I will not hesitate," Hannon agrees. "Besides, mages were the first thing I came to enjoy in the human world, and honor dictates I repay that favor."

"I do not understand magic, and admit without guilt that it is difficult for me to trust it," Arlindria says. "But if those who are beloved to you are in danger, both Britomart and I will be at your side to save them."

"And I as well, so you will not suffer that which I once suffered," Dulcia concludes. "It seems our minds will not be changed, Knight-Commander."

"Very well," Greagoir sighs. "Miss Amell, you understand the situation at hand. Once I open those doors, they are not opening again until someone can vouch that every single demon from the Fade that lurks in those halls is dead."

"I understand."

"We have some supplies available should you need them, but little else. This was an unexpected onslaught, and we only salvaged what equipment and man power we could."

Alixire glances from face to face among the Templars, searching to see if Cullen's face will jump out at her, but she cannot find him in their cluttered group. Her stomach sinks. She would know if he was here. She would sense him the way she did before, the distinctive feeling of his eyes upon her, the particular aroma of his hair and skin.

"Are there any other Templars deployed outside the Tower other than Carroll?" she asks, pressing her hand above her rapidly beating heart.

Greagoir tilts his head. "A few. Some left for Denerim to participate in services for those lost at Ostagar, and there should be a small company searching for your friend Jowan." He rattles off a list of names to Alixire, one that does not include Cullen's.

"And… all the other Templars who were saved are here in this room?" she whispers, her knees shaking.

"Yes, that is correct."

"So everyone else… is beyond those doors. With the demons and abominations. With Uldred."

"It grieves me to say it, but yes. It is so."

Alixire closes her eyes and sucks in her breath. _This can't be happening. It can't. This wasn't the place I was supposed to come back to. He was supposed to be here. We were supposed to be together._

_ And while you mope like a child, he could be dying in there, _she reminds herself, steeling her resolve and steadying her swaying feet. _Your home may be wrecked, but it's still your home. And he was the reason you came back. So fight for him with all you have, Alixire. Fight for this one chance to belong here again while you still have it._

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **The Wardens become trapped in the Fade, lost in their own personal nightmares.


	36. The Wardens: Lost in Dreams

**A/N: **I was always looking forward to doing is section, because it always bothered me that the Wardens' so called 'nightmare' was of Duncan regardless of origin. After all that trauma in their pasts, you'd think they'd have something a little more harrowing (har har) to dream of. Since my Wardens are a rather shrewd bunch, they don't quite fall for the tricks the demon has up his sleeve, though their return to past memories does provide them with much to reflect on. Enjoy!

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Thirty-Six. The Wardens: Lost in Dreams.**

When Arlindria opens her eyes after the enchanting whispers of the deformed demon in the Circle Tower clear from her mind, Trian is standing in front of her, wearing his full ceremonial armor from the day he was murdered by Bhelen. Oddly enough, he is irrefutably alive. His chest rises and falls in the proper rhythm of breathing, and there are no wounds in his chest or cuts in his armor where the fatal blow had pierced him. In fact, he is gazing down on Arlindria with the same imperious and annoyed expression he reserved especially for her back when he was alive. All the same, she is as well versed in the natural laws of the universe as any educated Chantry scholar, and knows that what she sees in front of her is realistically impossible. _The dead stay dead unless acted upon by a corrupt magical force. When the dead walk again, their soul is no longer within them. They are not who they say they are._

"Arlindria," the Trian-imposter says in a voice that perfectly imitates that of her departed brother. "Daddy's little favorite. It seems for all your effort, nothing will ever come of what you worked so hard to achieve. Tell me, did it kill you inside to have me as an obstacle in your way for all of these years? Did you ever wish to draw that sword of yours across my throat?"

"Thing of fell magic, I will not hear you. There is nothing you can say that will lead me to hate myself more than I already do." She pulls out her sword and points it at the exact spot where his skin had been broken by Bhelen's machinations "Bodies that contain the knowledge of death do not fear it a second time. I will return this vessel to the Stone, and you that possess it to your maker."

"Now, now, sister, will you commit that unforgivable act yourself? There will be consequences. Forget that crown ever touching your head, and forget all about your delusions of honor. You will be better served slaying yourself with that sword than you will me."

"I seek atonement before I seek death, spirit. I am no human with reverence or fear for magic. You will never force me to fold!"

She thrusts her blade forward, driving it through his armor and into his chest. She holds it there for a moment, meeting his soulless eyes before removing it and allowing him to disintegrate to dust at her feet. _I am sorry, Trian. I did not wish to bear witness to this again, but nothing can be done. This occurrence was my greatest fear, my living nightmare. I knew if my mind ever found its way against all odds to the land of dreams, I would find you here._

She turns around. The figures of her father, Bhelen, and Gorim are standing there, staring at her in awe and revulsion. She knows that these too are not real, but the life-like sight of their faces strikes her with a pang of misery. The other demons in the tower had been horrendous beings, forces of rage and corruption and lust that seduced the senses and performed acts of physical brutality. But what she sees surrounding her, the unreal bodies of those she both loved and hated the most, is an especially biting form of cruelty. It's as if her inner most soul has been intruded upon and used against her in order to bring her to the point of misery and desperation, a point where she will be forced to choose death for herself rather than live eternally with these shadows.

"I'm sorry father, brother," she whispers, brandishing her blade. "I can't die here now. There is no other way."

0o0o0o0o0o

It is no question for Dulcia that she is dreaming. She's experienced this nightmare so many times that she has learned to separate it from her reality and remind herself that the people dying in front of her are not truly her parents, but shades of the people she remembers them to be. If she concentrates hard enough, she can sense the many discrepancies within their imperfect forms. The texture of her mother's skin is wrong, and her father's eyes are devoid of their usual glimmer. The blood that pours from them is too thin and cool like water, and the color of it is inaccurate, more black than the deep red she remembers.

She kneels down and takes their hands in hers. _In a few minutes, this will all be over. I'll wake up and it will go away. This isn't real. The people I am losing right now aren't really you._

"Dulcia, my darling," the memory of her father murmurs, his breath hoarse and unsteady, "no more tears. Do not trouble yourself. Close your eyes and join us in our slumber."

She starts, instinctively dropping their hands. Out of all the times she's had this nightmare, he'd never said such a thing to her before. His words always resembled the promise he'd exacted from her during the true event, his pleas for her to follow Duncan and live the life their sacrifices had granted for her. Why would he beg her to stay? Her father would never consent to the death of his only daughter, even if she had begged him to allow her the privilege of dying beside him.

"Only death will set you free, my child," her mother whispers. "Let your revenge go so that you may sleep peacefully beside us. Everything will sort itself on its own. There is no reason to fight it anymore."

_Revenge_. The word clicks something in Dulcia's mind, restoring her dormant memories. _Asha'nan. Lady Revenge. I am here to dispose of Arl Howe and Teryn Loghain for their treachery against my loved ones. I am a Warden of Ferelden, and this dream is a trap to make me give up on our quest. These are not my parents, and there is no feeling to the words they speak._

She pulls her sword from her back, her hands shaking. "This perversion ends here," she sobs, her eyes shrouded with tears at the thought of the unthinkable deed she is about the commit. "Maker, make this swift and painless. For them and for me."

0o0o0o0o0o

"There you are! Thought you could run away from me, hmm?"

Nesiara is staring down at him, smiling brightly as if there is something to be happy over. Smiling _and_ winking. She looks so painfully joyous that Alain closes his eyes so he won't have to look at her anymore. He blinks once. Twice. When he opens his eyes, she is still there.

"Why are you here?" he asks, trying to remember where 'here' is. It looks like the Alienage, but it's foggy and distorted as if he is merely dreaming it. Perhaps he is. He cannot imagine another reason his old fiancée would be with him other than that this vision of her is in actuality a nightmare.

"We're getting married, silly," she laughs, stroking his cheek affectionately. "Shianni said you were a bit slow, but I thought you would remember something as important as this."

"We can't get married," he snaps, batting her hand away. "I'm—"

But for some reason, he can't think of his reason to reject her. There was one, wasn't there? He remembers distantly a time when he'd puzzled through this almost-marriage, and uncovered the possible reason why he had found it to be so distasteful. Had that been a dream? Or is this the dream? The former seems to be the more likely scenario, given that it is Alienage custom to get married around his age, and the fact that he'd somehow managed to escape this woman the first time around didn't mean he was guaranteed to pull a repeat performance.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm your betrothed. I'm here for the sole purpose of being bonded to you so that the two of us can live happily." She leans into him, pulling his face towards her. Her kiss is so cold and jarring that he leaps back in surprise, shoving her away from him and onto the ground.

_There is a reason I don't want this, _he coaches himself. _Why can't I remember it? _Scattered memories flash before his eyes in incomplete fragments. Holding the Joining chalice to his lips. Hearing the sounds of Loghain's retreat at Ostagar. Looking at the Alienage through the Denerim gate with Zevran. Seeing the look of cold determination on Alixire's face as she stepped into the Circle Tower.

"I remember why I can't marry you," Alain says, drawing his blade. "I'm not in love with you."

"What a silly thing to say. Love will come later if you bide your time and bring yourself to know me better."

"No, that's not it." He takes a step forward, pressing his sword against her heart. "The man you're looking for doesn't exist. And neither do you. You're a dream that I've given up believing in, and it's time for me to wake up now." He pierces her against his steel, leaning into her as if he is sparing her at least one embrace before he sends her back to oblivion. "Goodbye, Nesiara. I'm sorry I can't be the person you hoped I would be."

0o0o0o0o0o

"Hannon," Tamlen's voice calls out to him from deep in the forest. "Mahariel! If you go any slower, we'll never reach the ruins before dark."

Such familiar words. _This has happened to me once before,_ Hannon realizes. _But it's different this time. The world has gone blurry. I can't hear the voices of the birds or the whispers of the trees._

He stops running. He can't remember starting to begin with, but who ever remembers the beginning of dreams? It is the course of things to be dumped in a nonsensical place in the middle, and go along with where it leads you. And Hannon is willing to be led by it, for the time being. He had left things unresolved the last time he had ventured to this place, and now might be the last chance he has to make amends with whatever demons of guilt still plague him.

"Tamlen!" he calls back to the defiled shape of his friend. "Stay a moment. It won't hurt to wait just a few more minutes."

"That's unusual for you, Hannon. I thought you'd want first crack at the treasure." The figure slows its pace and turns back to face Hannon. The face is true to its original, but it lacks the life that Tamlen so effortlessly possessed, the particular mischievous gleam that set his eyes apart from the other men and women in the clan. It's almost laughable to Hannon that he is supposed to believe this twisted creation is his friend. Tamlen had been so special to him that he would have been able to tell whether it was or wasn't him even if the copy had been perfectly formed. A true friend is never fooled by these sorts of illusions.

"I have something to say to you, lethallin," Hannon tells him, keeping his tone even. "The you my heart remembers is probably beyond hearing these words now, but I must say them in hopes that the wind will carry them to you, wherever you are." He pauses, bowing his head. "I am sorry. I should have saved you in time, but I didn't. It is a burden I will always bear, but I am happy to be shouldered with it if it means I will always have this thread to tie me to you. That is all."

Tamlen screws his face up into his old look of confusion. "What do you mean, lethallin? I'm right here. What do you mean you didn't save me?"

"Don't trouble yourself over it, shadow. The one who was meant to hear those words will understand, even if you do not." He picks up his bow, and strings an arrow through it. "Go on ahead, Tamlen. I'll cover your back."

"Keep up if you can!" Tamlen cries, darting ahead with his powerful strides, running with a stolen levity until Hannon's arrow drives through the spot between his shoulder blades, dropping him to his knees and dissolving him to dust on the forest floor.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

The fact that she has never before dreamed in her life makes it easy for Britomart to tell that the things happening to her do not belong in her normal sphere of existence. The world is unclear, for one. The lines and limits that should be stable shift and blur, causing colors to melt into one another before separating into their original forms. And on top of that, there are people here that she knows are back in Orzammar. At least she thinks Rica and her mother and the carta thugs she used to work with wouldn't come to the surface just for the delight of torturing her.

"Freak!" someone yells from the crowd surrounding her. A rock grazes her arm, sailing past into the foggy oblivion. "Someone like you is better off dead. Do us all a favor and go back to the stone you came from!"

"Why couldn't you have been like your sister?" her mother jeers. "You never did me any good, you selfish little brat."

"That's a good imitation of my mother, demon," Britomart quips, throwing a dagger into the monster's chest. "But you forgot the alcohol breath."

The other demons hiss, the illusions covering their bodies flickering somewhat as the specter portraying her mother crumbles to dust. The false Rica steps forward, placing her hands on their shoulders as if to soothe their anger. Their proper coverings return, but with less detail than before.

"Peace, sister," she says, smiling wryly at Britomart. "Why be so angry at those who speak the truth. You are what you are. Unworthy. Unlovable. Cruel to the bone. What makes you think you know yourself better than these people who have known you all your life do? You are a heartless, foolish girl with no virtue deeper than your own physical strength. Your heart is an aberration and a flaw. It must be purged. If you do not do it, we will do so ourselves."

"Rica," Britomart says, though she knows her words are meaningless. "Don't say these words to me you don't mean. I have hurt you deeply with similar accusations, so I know you would not honestly and with all your heart say them back to me. That is what you have taught me. I am different now."

"Different? Ha! Do not dismiss the wrong that you do with empty words. You cannot change who you are. It is already too late."

"I don't feel that way anymore. And when I next see you in person, I know you'll feel the way I do." She lifts up her remaining dagger and pulls her arm back in preparation of throwing it. "Had you sought me out a few weeks earlier, you would have found me to be easy prey, demon. But things are changing for all of us. We won't be defeated by ourselves anymore. Not even me."

With one last sad smile, she hurls the dagger into her sister's chest, closing the door on the first and worst dream she'd ever had.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

The sloth demon doesn't put much effort into fooling Alixire. There is little point to it. She is a mage; she knows the Fade like the back of her hand, and like Hannon, she has an adeptness for sensing magic in others. The figure in front of her is clearly not Cullen and is a shoddy representation of him at best, though the demon certainly possessed the ability of peering into her mind to see how he truly appeared. Maybe he realized it didn't matter. Simply provoking her thoughts of whether or not Cullen is alive is enough to break her. She doesn't know if this will be the last time she will witness a form even remotely close to the shape of his body again. A part of her doesn't want to know the truth.

"I will wait for you," she tells the figure, her heart throbbing in her chest. "I will wait for you, alive or dead, no matter how long it takes."

"You could stay here with me," the imitation says, pressing her hand against the place where his heart would be. "You don't know what fate awaits you out there. It's uncertain. Me being here with you for what remains of your life… that's certain."

"Life isn't that easy. We were made to make hard choices, and to suffer for things we never wanted to happen. Rather than taking the easy road, I'll go on. Even if I regret it."

"Very well." The demon shifts to its true form, its red eyes fixing on her. "Just be prepared, mage. Who you are means an inevitable road of pain awaits you. Today you may survive, but we will force you to succumb one day. It is the fate of your kind."

"Do your worst," she says, lifting her staff. "I have things to live for that are stronger than your will to take them away from me. I'd wrestle with the Maker himself to keep them safe. To me, you are nothing."

Her staff glows as she concentrates the full strength of her magic at the demon. _Wait for me Cullen, _she prays, feeling the stone rendition of Andraste's headdress weighing heavily in her pocket. _I'm on my way._

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **Alixire finally finds what she is looking for, but will she make it in time to keep him from turning his heart completely against her for what she is?


	37. Alixire: Abandonment

**A/N: **Alixire's having a tough time of it, but she is much too strong and unyielding to give up now. If Cullen thinks he can get away from her easily, he has another think coming! Once again, thanks to all who have supported my work in one way or another, and I hope you continue to enjoy!

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**Thirty-Seven. Alixire: Abandonment.**

From the very beginning, Alixire had known that falling in love with Cullen was a logical mistake.

It had been impossible to rationalize her feelings when she first realized she was growing increasingly fond of him. Everything about it had seemed wrong and impossible. A Templar and mage. No aspect of such a pairing could be seen as wise or beneficial, and though some people undoubtedly receive a thrill from breaking taboos and embracing forbidden temptations, Alixire has never been one to place her neck on the chopping block for the sake of a few moments of pleasure. She knows as well as anyone that the Templar Order formed solely for the destruction of mages, and that falling in love with one is akin to a prisoner adoring their executioner or a slave paying homage to the chain around their neck. She is not masochistic or self-destructive, but all the same, she could not stop herself from making the damning decision of allowing herself to love him, no matter how much this choice would come back to hurt her in the future.

In the end, it was as much his fault as it was hers. She had been the one to initiate a relationship between them, but he had the distinction of being the one to love her first and engage her interest. Alixire, like all other mages, had fostered a special hatred for the Templars over her years in the Tower, and had vowed never to speak to them if she could help it so as not to give them a reason to use her words against her and trap her in a cage of suspicion. However, it was impossible for her not to be aware of Cullen, even though she wanted nothing to do with him or his order. The feeling of staring eyes was an unshakable one, one that prickled her nerves and raised goosebumps on the flesh being raked over by the want and curiosity of Cullen's unblinking gaze. It amazed as her that a Templar could be so captivated by her with such little provocation. Though she was talented and pretty in an average sort of way, there was nothing else about her that was particularly extraordinary compared to the other beauties in the Tower with much more to boast.

After months of being aware that he was watching her more closely than his job required him to, Alixire's curiosity finally got the better of her. She began speaking to him in passing, hoping that through his words and behavior he would reveal the motives behind his special attention to her. But what she discovered about him was not at all what she had been expecting. He was not in love with her for sadistic reasons or because he wished to possess the thing that had been time after time adamantly denied to him. His feelings for her were earnest and pure, like a blushing young boy's for the first young girl to strike his fancy. He admired her for who she was rather than the challenge she presented, and such innocent affection touched Alixire's jaded heart and softened her own feelings towards him until she, too, found herself on the brink of falling in love with someone she couldn't hope to fully have.

It was too late for both of them by time they realized the consequences of what they were getting into. One day they had been their normal selves, him staring at her with thinly disguised appreciation, and her returning his gazes with the tight frowns she reserved for Templars, and then before they knew it, they were sequestered in unused corners, speaking together alone and out of sight. She was impressed by the way his reverence for her set him apart from the other Templars, who were so deeply conditioned against the mages that their hearts would never be moved to love one, even if their bodies demanded otherwise. That Cullen had thoughts and feelings outside of the Chantry's dictates made him intriguing in her eyes, and the respect she felt blossomed more and more until she could no longer control the strength of her feelings for him, and was at last driven to offer him her love, or at least what little of it his conscience would allow him to accept.

"I adore," she once admitted to him during one of their meetings in the hidden corners of the Chantry library, "that you are the only one of your kind here who doesn't think of me as a caged lion, a powerful beast you are forced to lock away so it cannot escape and ravage innocents without mercy. It is refreshing to be thought of as something other than a danger to myself and others every once in a while."

"Then what do I think of you as?" he'd asked. It was true that he forgot the physical danger she posed whenever they were together, but Alixire knew that he was aware of some other danger whenever he was around her, something that made him keep his guard up as he wouldn't for any other woman but a mage.

"You think I am caged bird," she had answered. Back then, she hadn't remembered that she'd once owned one herself, but the meaning of the image had lingered in the back of her mind over the years.

"How so?"

"You think I'm beautiful and exotic, possessing a power beyond your understanding. It is my wings, my gift of flight, which frightens you. You do not worry that if you open to my cage I will bring harm to others, but rather that if you give me the chance to decide for myself, I will fly away and you will lose me forever."

Cullen hadn't said anything for a long time after she said that. He took her hand in his and stared at it for a moment, studying it with an amazed expression as if he wasn't quite convinced it was real. Then, in a quiet voice, he said the words she would never forget for all her life. _I know I am in the wrong in loving you, Alixire. You are the symbol of Andraste's destruction and the defilement of the Black City. You represent everything I hate in the world, but still I will never be able to forgive you if you leave me here. I've turned my back on so much of what I believe in to love you, and I'm afraid the moment that you leave I will have nothing left to hold on to. Not the Maker. And not you, ever again._

0o0o0o0o0o

Alixire presses her hands against the magical barrier surrounding Cullen, her stomach twisting in horror. She is grateful beyond words to see that he is still alive, but the knowledge that he has been tortured to the point of despair keeps her from feeling as happy as she should be at the sight of him. He is doubled over in his cage, his hands pressed against his temples as if he is trying to tear his brain from his skull, and his screams echo across the room, chilling her to the bone.

"Not this trick," he whimpers, looking up at her with a sickened expression. "You cannot fool me. I know what you are. The Maker will keep me safe from you, no matter what pain you try to inflict on my heart."

"Cullen? Do you recognize me?" She kneels on the ground so she is level with him. "Can you see my face?"

"I know what form you are trying to use against me all too well. I tried to protect her from you, so you would not pervert her memory, but you have gone too far within my thoughts for me to stop you. But no matter what visions you use to torture me, I know she is dead. You cannot make her otherwise." He presses his clasped hands in front of his lips, hiding his expression. "If any part of you is human, kill me now and stop this game. How dare you violate my thoughts and tempt me with the only thing I want that will never come true? How dare you turn my shame and grief against me, and force me to relive my hopeless infatuation with her… how I allowed myself to love a mage, of all things?"

"So this at last is the lover, huh?" Zevran interjects. "Who knew you were such a little heartbreaker, Alixire?"

"Don't call that thing by her name," Cullen yells, slamming his hands against the barrier. "You will not defile her, spirits of evil!"

"But it really is me, Cullen," Alixire insists, her eyes welling up at this torment. "My companions and I survived Ostagar, and have started on a journey to unite Ferelden against the Blight. I came back to you just like I promised!"

"Silence, I will not be fooled by any words you use to tempt me. Begone." He shuts his eyes tightly and then opens them again. "You're still here. That always worked before, but you're still here!"

"Because I am real, Cullen. I am here to deliver you from this injustice you suffer. I have returned, just as I swore I would"

"I… I…" He covers his face again, sobbing into his hands. "It doesn't matter anymore if you kept your promise to me. I've asked the Maker to forgive me, and I can't go back now. Even if you are real."

"What are you saying? You do not sound like yourself."

"That is because I am no longer who I once was. I was an innocent when you knew me, but your comrades have corrupted me to the core. I know understand what my purpose is and have forsaken any doubts I had back when we were together. I am here to better serve the Chantry and to devote myself entirely to the Maker. There is no other meaning to my existence anymore. It is my duty to oppose you… and all you are."

"Desperation has driven you to that conclusion, but I know your true heart, Cullen. Don't allow your loss of hope to force you to become someone you are not."

"Don't pretend to understand everything I've endured these months since you've been gone. You weren't here… you didn't see the things they did to us. They deserve to die. Uldred most of all. He caged us like animals, and broke us in every way imaginable. I… I am the only one left."

"The Maker preserved you, and kept you from the hand of death. Please, Cullen. Do not waste this opportunity by hardening your heart with hatred. Not all mages are Uldred. I am not Uldred. There is not a single being in Thedas or in the Fade that would ever convince me to harm a hair on your head. I love you."

"Don't say that! I can't bear it! You mages will say anything to protect yourselves, but I will not fall for it anymore. And to think I once thought we were too hard on you."

Alixire studies his eyes carefully. "Do you really believe that? After everything we shared and felt, do you really, with every fiber of your being, believe that is true? Or is this the Cullen who was never able to trust in the fact that I loved him enough to willingly come back to my cage speaking with me now?"

He shakes his head. "Alixire. None of that matters anymore. The only thing I have left to ask of you is that you destroy everyone in the chamber ahead. The mages fought back to the best of their abilities against the blood mages, but even they were lost. Uldred has them now. They're in the harrowing chamber, and he is turning them into demons as we speak. You must destroy them all to cleanse the Tower. There is no hope that any of them are still themselves. And…" He looks at her, his body shaking. "If any part of you really loves me like you say, you will choose me this one time. The one time when it matters most."

She closes her eyes and rests her head against his barrier. "You're wrong, Cullen. I already chose you the time it most mattered. I chose to love you in spite of everything I am and everything you are. That was the best way I had to show you that you were more important to me than even myself. Killing innocents and giving up on my brothers and sisters would just make a mockery of that sacrifice. And I don't want to have a reason to resent you. If we both resent each other, everything really will be over. I can't let that happen."

"I won't change my mind again," Cullen insists, though his voice wavers. "I promised the Maker. I promised myself."

"And I made a promise to you, Cullen. Even if you won't forgive me, it doesn't matter. I'll spend the rest of my life making you trust me again, even if that's all I do. I love you. I truly love you more than I have ever loved anything or anyone else. Even if you don't want to hear it, I'll keep on saying it until I make you remember that you love me, too. You don't have to turn against the Maker or turn against me. There's enough love in your heart for both of us. That was how we were made to be."

She pulls Andraste's headdress from her pack and sets it in front of his barrier. "You will always have me to hold on to, Cullen. You may doubt everything else if you like, but never doubt that. Wherever I fly off to, I'll always come back here, to you."

For a moment, Cullen lifts his hand and presses it against the place where her hands are resting on the barrier. Though the magical force keep them separated, she can almost feel the sensation of his skin touching hers once again, as if they have never been parted. It doesn't matter to her whether or not he can also sense her touch or if he's grown too distant for her to reach him and unburden his wounded soul at this moment. The heart is a fickle thing, one that loves what it shouldn't and cannot be convinced to change its feelings by any voice other than its own. Though falling in love with Cullen had been a foolish decision, it had been her heart's decision to make, and even Cullen himself would never be able to convince it to change or bend to his will. Through all that has happened and is still yet to come, Alixire will keep on holding onto her misguided love and pray with all her might that the Maker, in a rare show of mercy, will grant her the one thing in the world she has ever wanted with absolute, unshakable certainty.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **The Wardens arrive in Haven to look for Brother Genitivi, and Alain single-handedly incurs the wrath of the village with an incident involving Antivan boots and dead bodies.


	38. Alain: Simple Gifts

**A/N: **After completing Alixire's struggle in the Circle Tower, it's time to shift to a more light-hearted note for the moment. This idea came to be randomly when I was playing the game as Alain and realized that the rotting flesh boots were in the same building as the rotting flesh body. I also kept the fact that I soloed the villagers with Alain in the chapter (I forgot that I put all my party members on stand-by, so they just sat there for the entire fight). He's such a little badass. Enjoy!

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**Thirty-Eight. Alain: Simple Gifts.**

Though Alain has to some degree found every place they've visited thus far on their journey to rally support against the Blight strange and decidedly different from his expectations of the human world, Haven is by far the oddest of the bunch. He is familiar with the concept of isolationism, especially fresh from his experiences in the Ferelden Circle Tower, but even the Templars and mages were receptive of guests as long as they came without the intention of causing trouble to the set operations and hierarchy. First Enchanter Irving had been particularly insistent that Alixire and Wynne return to the Tower as often as possible and bring as many friends as they liked along with them. The Knight-Commander hadn't seemed to share Irving's openness on the subject, but the debt he owed to Alixire kept him silent and gracious, even to the likes of Morrigan and Hannon who he surely would never have allowed free reign of the Tower under different circumstances.

The people of Haven, however, have made it clear from the moment the Wardens first stepped through the city gates that they are not welcome. Though the villagers are such straight forward people, leaving their intentions and opinions open on the surface in a perfectly undisguised fashion, Alain isn't sure what to make of them. He approves of their decision not to be false about their feelings and indulge in mind games with the Wardens when all they really want is for them to leave the town alone, but all the same he has to wonder about their sanity in thinking they will quietly leave the village after witnessing Haven's blatant and almost intentional display of wildly suspicious behavior. They may as well be wearing signs that say _'Investigate me! I am involved in criminal behavior!' _for all the subtlety they're lacking.

Taking them up on this challenge, Britomart has led an expedition up to the top of the village to the Chantry. Her suspicion is that since no one seems to be lingering the streets besides guards and a creepy little boy chanting rhymes in a cryptic voice, the townsfolk—if there are any—must be holed up somewhere. Being naturally wary of the Chantry, she had chosen it as their most likely target, which Hannon confirmed by hearing the sounds of singing voices coming from up the hill.

Alain would have been happy to go with them, but one of his swords had been shattered by magic during their fight with Uldred, and he'd forgotten to buy a new one off the quartermaster in the Tower. Upon arriving in Haven, he'd noticed a lone shop set up in the middle of the villagers' hovels, and told his companions that he would join them in their investigation as soon as he could. There was no time for them to delay, given that the guards were already in the process of discussing how best to remove them from the city before whatever secret they are hiding is discovered.

The little shop itself, when Alain enters it, is nothing short of pitiful. The only swords available for purchase are so poorly constructed that Alain wouldn't use them even if he was standing unarmed in front of the archdemon. He could do more damage with his fists than with the blades Haven has to offer. Once again, he wonders if this is a shrewd or unintentional act on the part of the villagers. Either they are wise in keeping unwelcome visitors armed with faulty weapons, or they are just plain horrible at smithing, and have gone on without any knowledge whatsoever about the proper use of a forge.

"You're not from here," the shopkeeper tells Alain as he sorts through the swords, looking for something half way decent to buy. "You're a stranger to this place. And an elf."

"I know."

"What business would an elf have in Haven?"

"Buying a blade."

"In Haven?"

"I was in the area."

"What were you doing in the area?"

"Killing darkspawn."

"What's the point of that? They're in Lothering at the moment. Any mercenary looking to earn a sovreign clearing out darkspawn in parts of Ferelden wouldn't come here."

"I'm not a mercenary. No one is paying me."

Alain halts his search for a moment, turning his head to the side. A putrid smell is tickling his nose from the direction of a chest in the front of the store. He wanders closer to it, inhaling the foul aroma deeply. It reminds him of the stench coming from beggars in the Alienage who go hungry and die on streets, leaving their rotting bodies in the sweltering heat until someone finds them and delivers their corpses to be commended to the Maker. He does not think the shopkeeper would keep rotting body parts locked in a chest at the front of the store, but the smell is so distinctive that he cannot imagine what else it could be.

He remembers Zevran telling him something about Antivan leather smelling like rotting corpses. Perhaps that's what it is. He'd spoken at long length about how much he wanted a pair of fine boots made of Antivan leather, which Alain interpreted to be a form of homesickness. Zevran's life in Antiva had been less than ideal, but still he pined for the familiarity of it, the feeling of being in the place where he there was always an empty space waiting for him to fill. It is just the same as what Alain feels for the Alienage, so as soon as Zevran told him the story of the boots, he wanted to comb Ferelden to find him a pair to make him feel at home among them. If the threat of the Blight wasn't so imminent, he would have jumped on a ship and gone all the way to Antiva to look for them.

"Is that smell what I think it is?" Alain asks the shopkeeper.

"Smell?" The man's face twists into a panicked look, and Alain can see beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. "What smell?"

"The rotting flesh, dead body-like smell," Alain answers, his eyes narrowing. "What have you got in there?"

"I don't know what you're talking about! There's nothing suspicious in the back room. It's none of your business!"

_All right_, Alain determines. _They're idiots after all. Honest idiots, but still…_

"I was talking about the chest," he says. "So I take it you have a dead body in your back room. Shall I investigate?"

"You've gone too far, foreigner. You'll pay for sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong." The shopkeeper darts out from behind the counter, throws open the door, and begins clanging the silver bell he'd had hidden in his hands. Before Alain can even register what's going on, villagers begin pouring in floods down the hill, armed with large axes and screaming an indecipherable battle cry as they run towards him.

"Bad day to be caught without a good sword," Alain mutters, pulling two blades from the rack in order to defend himself. He plants himself in the doorframe to keep himself from being overwhelmed at all sides, taking out his attackers one by one until they pile up into a miniature mountain at his feet. Even so, they persist in coming at him in a relentless stream, forcing him to back into the store to grab more blades after his first two are broken.

Though their forces are strong in number, the villagers lack any sort of battle training that could give Alain's a run for his money. He barely breaks a sweat as he takes them down on his own, exhausting more effort in wondering why the whole town would fight to protect the secret of a single dead body than he does in fighting.

After he clears out the last of the resistance, he tosses aside the remains of the useless blades and digs through the dead shopkeeper's pocket, pulling out a solitary key. He tests it out on the chest, and though the lock is a bit rusted in places, it at last comes open at his urging. A pair of Antivan boots rests inside, brand new and reeking of spoiled meat.

As he lifts the boots from the chest, he hears a bell ringing from the top of the hill. He smiles to himself. Whoever is dealing with his friends will be sorely lacking in reinforcements after the little spree he'd just concluded.

0o0o0o0o0o

Twenty minutes later, the remaining Wardens and their companions arrive back in the heart of the village, accompanying a shaky-legged bald man who Alain assumes is Brother Genitivi. Dulcia, Sten, and Britomart have a few bloodstains on them, but on a whole, the group looks unharmed and relatively safe.

"A-ha," Alistair says, admiring Alain's pile of causalities. "We were wondering why everyone left the church when they heard the sound of a bell coming from here. Dare I ask how you managed this?"

"I found out that guy had a body in his back room," Alain says, jabbing his finger in the direction of the dead shopkeeper. "They attacked me, and I killed them."

"Just like that," Alixire marvels, pursing her lips. "You remind me of Hannon when I first met him. Are all elves this matter-of-fact?"

"We are when we want to be, but everyone likes a man of mystery from time to time, right City Boy?" Hannon answers on Alain's behalf. "Still, you could have saved some for us. All we were left with was a Revered Brother who was as ancient as the hills. Not much of a challenge at all."

Alain shrugs and sticks out his hand to show the boots to Zevran. "For you."

"For me?" Zevran takes them into his arms and sniffs them lovingly. "Not only did you remember what I said about them, but you killed all these rabid men just to get them? Oh, this is much too good, my Grey Warden. I'm half tempted to attack you for this right in front of everyone."

"Attack him? Why would you attack someone for giving you a gift?" Alistair asks, stepping in front of Alain in a protective manner. "Besides, I think he's been attacked enough already today."

Everyone's eyes turns to Alistair in amazement, which quickly shifts to amusement as Leliana begins snickering uncontrollably behind her hands.

"It's a Templar thing, I swear," Alixire mutters, rolling her eyes.

"You have my sympathy, Dulcia," Hannon adds, giving her a hearty pat on the back.

"What?" Alistair asks in confusion, looking from Dulcia to Alain with furrowed brows. "Did I do something funny?"

_Guess that book I got him didn't do any good_, Alain thought to himself as Dulcia drew Alistair aside and began explaining things to him. _Ah, well. It's been a strange day, so what's a little more?_

He gazes down at Zevran's feet, which are now enclosed by the leather boots. He feels uncharacteristically proud of himself at the sight of them. In another time, he would have thought his solo defeat of an entire village to be his best accomplishment, but this simple act seems much more valuable to him. _I really am changing_, he muses. _This odd little world I've come into is becoming an entirely different place than what I imagined it would be._

__0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **The Wardens engage in a philosophical debate when the Guardian of the Ashes attempts to get them to question their motives and regrets behind their biggest mistakes.


	39. The Wardens: Questioning Beliefs

**A/N: **I took a little liberty with the Guardian's questions for the Wardens, because I feel at this point in their journey, their initial regrets from their Origin stories have developed based on their new experiences. As the Wardens change and shift their perspectives, so too do their doubts alter over time. Enjoy!

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**Thirty-Nine. The Wardens: Questioning Beliefs.**

"You are not the first to come to this place. But I wonder. Will you be the first found worthy of looking upon the earthly remains of Holy Andraste?"

The Guardian gazes at each of them one by one, his eyes showing no particular emotion as if he is reading inconsequential information from a dry text. He is not how Flemeth had been when glimpsing into their inner hearts, amused and gleeful over the twisted paths in their lives, and impressed by the directions their fate would lead them. Perhaps the Guardian's immortality and unending vigil have made him more impartial, or else he, unlike Flemeth, sees nothing particularly novel to their futures. After all, he bore witness to the life of Andraste and the world where there was a Maker who actually guided over His people. Whatever the Wardens assembled are capable of, it must seem like a single grain of sand in the face of what Andraste had done.

"Not all of you have come as faithful, to pay homage to the ashes and recognize them for what they are," the Guardian continues, his eyes passing over Hannon, Britomart, Arlindria, Sten, Morrigan, and Zevran. "But it is of no matter. Andraste died for everyone, and as long as your heart is pure, she will welcome you in her sight. But can each of you boast such a purity? I wonder. There is so much darkness assembled before me that I wonder if there is a light strong enough to shine through."

"That's too bad," Zevran chuckles lightly, still carelessly irreverent even in the face of such a spirit. "If this Andraste is looking for purity, I'm afraid only three people are making it through in this room."

The Guardian's blank gaze turns to him. "Purity of the body and purity of the soul are two separate concepts. A man who is pure of heart is not one entirely devoid of sin, but one who questions his mistakes and ill actions and uses the guidance of his wisdom and uncorrupted conscience to do better for himself. Andraste herself suffered much and lived in a world deeply immersed in sin, but there was a light that shined through her that made her worthy in the sight of the Maker. I now look for that same light in each of you."

"And how do you expect to find out such a thing?" Arlindria asks, regarding the Guardian warily. "As a dwarf, it's difficult for me to trust in a kind of magic that can search out the worthiness of a heart."

"Your heart is your own, child of Stone. Even if it is laid bare for all to see, only you would be able to say what the things inside mean to you. That is why I will ask you of your past mistakes to learn of how you yourself think of them. The answer you will give is something you alone know."

He pauses, keeping his eyes on Arlindria. "You were always in a position of power as Princess of Orzammar, but you sought greater heights from the moment you first learned what that crown on your father's head signifies. You wanted to help your people become stronger and more secure in a world threatened by darkspawn at every turn, but at the same time you wished to test yourself and become a figure worthy of the praise and love your father had earned. But it was not as simple as you thought it would be. You wonder if the way you placed your own ambitions first in your life alienated your relationships with your brothers, father, and lover. You wonder if they would have loved and believed in you more if you had placed their needs and happiness ahead of your own, even if it meant sacrificing what you felt you wanted most from the world. Do you regret what you have done, child?"

Arlindria frowns, placing her hands over her heart as if to protect it from his invasion. "I have spent much of my life carrying about the needs and happiness of others," she says gruffly. "I had ambitions, yes, but Orzammar always came first. I would have done anything for my people. I would have given up everything on their behalf if it meant they would be safe and happy. Your Chantry emphasizes the idea of living for others, and that's all well and good when living for others bring the sort of happiness I found in living for my people, but there is a part of me that can't devote my life entirely to that purpose. There is a reason I am in this world, a difference to who I am and what my life signifies that cannot be replicated by anyone else. If I do not live for myself as well as for others, who am I really? What have I done that makes my life meaningful, or has made me a figure worth being remembered as more than a hollow shell?" She gazes at the guardian levelly. "If I had bent to become whoever Trian, Bhelen, and Gorim wanted me to be, I would have had to erase everything I ever wanted for myself. My life would have been a life defined solely by living for the joy of someone else. But would that make me happy? Is that who Arlindria is and was meant to be? I don't think so. I may regret losing their love, but the more I reflect on my decisions, the more I realize that even though I made mistakes and lost everything I wanted, I at least made the effort of trying to fill that want. Doing that is what I think life ought to be about."

"Living for others is a challenging thing," Alain agrees quietly. "The more you do it without ever thinking of yourself, the deeper the resent builds beneath the surface."

"Everyone has things they want that are purely selfish," Hannon nods. "For the world to progress, those paths must be taken just as often as the ones that lead to new paths for other."

"But unchecked selfishness leads to dangerous decisions," the Guardian says, his eyes falling on Alain. "A child born in the Alienage must realize that if they care nothing for their community or race, the fragile culture they have built for themselves will collapse and they will feel the bite of chains around their wrists once again. You always realized you were different from the others around you, and that the world they held you in was too small for what you were capable of. But your selfishness led you to make a make callous prayer, one that ended up changing the lives of more people than just yourself. Do you regret that you earned your freedom at the cost of Shianni's suffering? Would it have been better to submit to the future determined to you if it meant that she would be safe?"

"I have never denied to myself that I was in the wrong for what I asked the Maker that day," Alain says simply. "It is a burden I will always carry on my heart for as long as I live."

"But would you do it again, knowing what the result would be? Would you choose Shianni over the knowledge of yourself you have recently gained?"

"Yes. I would have spent the rest of my life wondering what was missing, and I would have been unhappy. But it is still the choice I would make."

"My, my, so intent on punishing yourself, are you?" Zevran clucks. "If only I had thought to bring along some rope and whips so you could do the job properly."

"You have selflessness beyond what I am capable of," Arlindria admits with a shrug. "You are a better person than I can ever hope to be."

"No," Alain says, shaking his head. "I am worse. My selflessness would leave me with a life without meaning. Shianni would be so disappointed in me. But still I would do it. I would spare her one pain only to bring her another because when it comes to love, I am nothing but a coward."

"Perhaps more than one of you suffers from that same affliction in matters of the heart." The Guardian's eyes settle on Britomart. "Oppressed child, you were taught from a young age that you are as small and insignificant as dust, but still your heart beat for things bigger than you were meant to reach. You wanted glory, respect, and attention because of the decisions you had made in the past that denied these things to you. But the more and more you gained for yourself, the unhappier you were. You wondered if there would ever be anything you could do to surpass your sister. She was the only one to stand up for you when everyone else turned their backs, but your jealousy and resentment for the things she had in life fostered a coldness in your soul. You would even ignore the deepest desires of your heart if it meant becoming better than her. But still the love you've rejected festers in your heart, burning to be released. Do you regret the path you've chosen? Does the cold heart you wear so proudly matter more than the real heart buried within?"

"Do you know want to know what I regret, spirit?" Britomart says coolly. "The way this twisted world is set up. That people can arbitrarily make choices about what they say is acceptable and unacceptable, and stuff it into the mouths of the ancestors or the Maker or whatever other crazy gods are out there, and pretend people are breaking some sort of divine law by behaving in the way they feel they ought to. Why shouldn't I want to force it back and try to rise higher than my sister who has somehow avoided suffering in this system? This world is a place that makes us hate ourselves and lose faith in who we are. Even your Andraste played a part in making it that way. Her death resulted in the formation of the Chantry, and as soon as matters of doctrine are placed in the hands of mortals, there is no hope of ever feeling at peace inside. Your life is either a sin against the gods, or it isn't. There is no in between."

"But there is much kindness in the world to find," Leliana says gently. "The Chantry does have its flaws, as does your own system, but the message they try to spread is one of hope and eternal love."

"Having good intentions is hardly a consolation for the one destroyed by your religion's failings," Morrigan cut in, lifting an eyebrow. "If she does not feel this so called hope and eternal love, what good has it done?"

"That is a question one of you has dwelled long on." The Guardian turns to gaze upon Alixire. "The Maker is always in your heart, but your relationship with Him is riddled with bitterness and mistrust. You wonder if he consents to the restriction of your kind, or if you are right in fighting against the things that limit you. Your battle with this very same issue has caused you to make decisions that you now question. Were you right to betray Jowan, a mage with as many doubts about the system as you hold in your heart? Do you regret involving the heart of a Templar whose relationship to the Maker has been strained by the conflict between his duties and feelings for you?"

Alixire considers for a moment. "I do not deny the Maker's existence, nor do I pretend to know what He wants of me. Why would He put mages on the earth if His only intention for them is to have them locked up and left only to use their talents behind closed doors where they serve no real purpose other than to simply exist? Are we only meant to struggle against our gift in order to come to a better understanding of what it means to sacrifice just as Andraste sacrificed for us? I do not have an answer. All I know is that I feel it in my heart that the Chantry and the Templar Order forced Jowan into what he became. I do not condone his blood magic or respect his decision to submit to the corner he was backed into, but that he was backed into that corner at all gives me no satisfaction. Regardless of what the Maker wants, I will fight this system. Involving Cullen was not something I intended, but it was something that happened all the same. I may cause him pain and make him doubt the vows he swore, but I see in his eyes that his pain will be greater if I abandon him. So I won't. My love is too strong, and I do not think love is an emotion the Maker would ever be ashamed of."

"It isn't," Dulcia murmurs, placing her hand on Alixire's shoulder. "Even though there are consequences, standing beside Cullen is the right thing to do."

"Mages have always questioned the way things are," Wynne adds. "Alixire is not the first to do so, nor will she be the last. It is healthy to have these doubts, and if she never questions herself, nothing will change that needs to be changed. The love she has for that boy is a challenge, but it is one she is ready to face, I think."

"First love is an innocent and difficult thing, but perhaps more so when it is tainted by decisions made in the past." The Guardian's cold, blank eyes seek Dulcia's. "You have found a small measure of peace after you battled through the death of your parents, but now another guilt hounds your heart. Knowing that your brother was heading to a dangerous battle, you still willfully refused to pay your respects to him, and instead gave yourself halfheartedly to a man whose unthinking protection of you resulted in his death. You worry that if Fergus is dead, you wasted your chance to let him know how much you love him. Instead, you allowed your resentment at being left out of the battle to poison your heart against your family. Do you regret your absence at his side now that he may be dead?"

"I regretted it even when I thought him to be alive," Dulcia replies, gazing sadly down at her feet. "It was a stupid, foolish thing to do. I love my brother and my parents, and not even a few minutes of anger will change that. As for Dairren, I won't deny that I treated him poorly as well. My respect for him was genuine, so what I did was all the more beneath my dignity. But I don't hold myself accountable for his death anymore. I saw the room where his mother and Ionna were slaughtered without mercy. He would have joined them regardless of my interference. What I truly regret was having to see it happen. Having to know the blood that spilled from him was given in my behalf, when I had given him so little in return."

"I had no idea," Alistair whispers.

"The death was one with honor," Sten says. "You would do well to learn the value of that blood he spilled."

"There is always a cost in the blood of others," the Guardian nods, turning finally to Hannon. "You have little patience for my words, child of the Dales, so I will be brief with you. You have made your peace with Tamlen, but you still wonder. If he had not been there with you, you would have brought the mirror to your people. You worry that if it been up to you, your curiosity would have unleashed a horror upon your entire tribe by showing them that Eluvian."

"Of course. When confronted with a piece of history like that, no Dalish would be content to let it lie. Perhaps Tamlen's death had meaning in that it served as a warning for the rest of the tribe." Hannon shrugs. "Does that mean my soul is pure or impure? I think it signifies nothing. I wish for things, I have flaws, I love and hate in equal measure. My mistakes are my own, and they both burden me and teach me how to step forward into the future. That is the meaning of existence. If none of us did these things, we wouldn't be here."

"And perhaps realizing that truth is what it means to have a pure heart. But I am not the one who judges your worthiness. I only look to see if there is light enough to guide your path."

The Guardian steps away from the door, and it opens on its own. "The way is in front of you. What you do now is up to you. Your hearts are complex things that even you do not understand, but perhaps they are fit to look upon the face of grace that rose beyond doubt and the limitations of our earthly bodies." The Guardian's eyes crease suddenly, at last displaying a curiosity greater than his former blank indifference. "I wonder. After all these years, my heart wonders and questions just as much as your own. It was what we were made to do. If you must forego regretting something, let it be that."

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **After hearing about Dulcia's former relationship with Dairren at the Gauntlet, Alistair begins to wonder if being involved with her is healthy for her at this time in her life. Will doubt tear them about, or is there something strong enough to keep their two wounded hearts together?


	40. Dulcia: Comfort

**A/N: **Dulcia is beginning to reconcile herself to the details of her past, but will Alistair feel the same now that the particulars of her relationship with Dairren are out in the open? Rolf, the lovely mabari, also makes an appearance for the first time in a while because dogs are awesome. As a side note, I'm going back through the earlier chapters and correcting the spelling and grammar issues that have been bothering me, and eventually I hope to get the majority of it cleaned up. Enjoy!

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**Forty. Dulcia: Comfort.**

Rolf runs his scratchy tongue over Dulcia's fingers as she sits alone in front of her tent, gazing blankly at the others as they enjoy their last hours of waking before nightfall. Ever since he imprinted on her and became a beloved member of the Cousland family, her mabari has been particularly attuned to the direction of her moods. She wasn't surprised to find him knowledgeable of her outward manifestations of emotions that she made so loud and obvious that anyone with eyes would notice them—her tears, her screams of frustration, her laughter, the worst of her physical pain. But that he could sense even her deepest moments of inner turmoil when she did her best to hide her thoughts and feelings so that no one would trouble themselves on her behalf was a shock to her. Whenever doubts entered into her heart or she began to question the course she had sent herself, he was always there at her side, gently licking her fingers or resting his heavy head in her lap, a constant comfort as she battled through whatever was plaguing her from the inside.

"Am I worrying you, dear?" she asks Rolf, wrapping her arms around his thick body and resting her head against his shoulder. "Did you think I was lonely?"

He whines, brushing his head under her cheek.

"I'm not… not really. I like watching everyone else sometimes, too. I mean, just look at them. They're so happy. Hannon trying to make magic with Alixire's staff… Alain losing to Zevran at cards for the millionth time... Leliana playing her lute. Sometimes it's just enough to watch the others and take some time to relax on my own."

Rolf barks, seeming to glare at her for lying.

"I'm not lying. There isn't anything wrong. I'm just thinking."

Rolf whimpers again, turning his head in the direction of Alistair's tent. _This dog is too smart for his own good, _Dulcia thinks to herself crossly. _I was the one who trained him, and even I don't understand how he learned these things._

She shakes her head. "No, Rolf, I'm not worried about him holing up in there. I'm sure he needs to think, too. Going through that Gauntlet wasn't easy. We all have something to consider after that whole ordeal, and we all have our own ways of dealing with it. He had his own question to contend with from the Guardian. I'm sure he's not dwelling on mine. Or do you think I'm kidding myself?"

Rolf barks a positive 'yes'.

"You're one to talk. Or bark. That Guardian didn't ask you anything. He just gave you a nice little pat on the head and told you to look out for me. Just because you don't have anything to worry about doesn't mean you have to worry after me. Alistair and I will be fine. That business with Dairren was always going to come up. Better now than later, right?"

She scratches behind Rolf's ears. "Do you remember Dairren, Rolf? We've known him for the longest time. Ever since I was a child, he's been a dear and good hearted friend. I won't say that I loved him, or at least not in that way at that moment. That night was just to satisfy a physical demand. A need to be joined by _some _sort of good feeling. Maybe it wasn't love, but that doesn't mean I didn't care about him. The person I didn't care about was myself. That's what's changed with Alistair. I'm content with my decision in choosing him, Rolf. That's not going to change over something like this."

_But Alistair, _Rolf seems to ask her with his eyes, _is he content?_

"I guess that's something we'll have to find out now, won't we?" Dulcia answers. Alistair has just popped his head out of his tent, his eyes falling on her. "He's headed this way. So, if you wouldn't mind, my dear Rolfie, could you scamper off for a few minutes? I know you're worried about me, but this is nothing I can't handle. I am an adult, you know."

Rolf growls, but he obeys the command of his mistress and runs off to play with Hannon, confusing Alixire's staff as a large stick to play fetch with. Dulcia smiles to herself, her spirits lifting a little. No matter what happens with Alistair, at least she can be certain that Rolf will be there to dry her tears or rejoice in her laughter. Even when she feels alone in the world, she's beginning to realize she'll always have one thing or another to fall back on. Whether it's just her dog or herself, the fact that she feels strong enough to rely on her own strength and faith in her small foundation of support is progress in itself when she considers the girl she once was who would fume in anger at her family for holding her back and then throw herself in the arms of a man to find worth.

"Alistair," she says, watching him as he sits down beside her. "How does this evening find you?"

"I'm fine," he answers softly, his eyes glued on the ground. "It's you I'm worried about."

"Oh, you're not alone in that. We all owned up to a lot in Haven, didn't we?"

"You more than anyone."

"You think? I'm more concerned about Britomart when it all comes down to it. I've at least made peace with myself, but I don't think she's completely at the point where she's reconciled with her heart. The same goes for Alain. They're on their way, but they're not quite there yet."

"Dulcia…" Alistair sighs and glares grimly at a small rock protruding from the earth "Please don't dismiss yourself right now. You said to me once that the Maker does not give us burdens to bear alone. Even if you say that you're working on settling the score with your past, I don't think it's that simple. That man the Guardian talked about... he died right in front of your eyes, didn't he? And you went straight from that scene to gazing upon the deaths of your entire estate, and then the deaths of your parents. You've had time to think about your parents and reflect on your brother, but I don't think you've deeply thought on that first death until now. It must be hard on you."

Dulcia turns her gaze to the same stone Alistair is staring at, knowing eye contact is impossible for this sort of conversation. If he will not see her and witness the emotion in her eyes, the love so plain and unhidden that she wonders at how often he fails to recognize it, all she can hope to do is look upon the world as he sees it and find a way for him to realize that she will always be there within, to comfort and be comforted.

"It was hard," she says, not bothering to disguise the truth from him to soften the blow. "When you see someone you care about die in front of you and know that their death is for you… and no matter what you do, you're completely powerless to stop it… the world as you once understood it shatters into pieces. Time slows and doesn't feel the same any more. You think to yourself, _someone paid for my life with theirs, and the only reason I am breathing right now is because someone else lost their breath to give me mine. _It's a terrible burden. Beautiful, but terrible. Of course I haven't forgotten it. As long as I live and breathe, I will never forget what Dairren and my parents did for me."

She blinks back tears and clears her throat, trying to keep her composure. "You're worried about it for more than just the fact that it's a burden to me. I understand. You're wondering if I'm making a mistake in agreeing to be with you during a time like this. You think that I may not be over what happened, or over him. It makes sense, after all. He died right after we did what we did. There was no time to process or question or regret like there normally would be. So maybe a part of you is worried that I never reconciled myself to the emotions of that night, and that's why I was so quick to turn to you. Because I need something to fill the vacuum. Because I need love so much to replace what was lost, that I would take it from anyone."

"Not quite," Alistair answers softly, still not looking up from the ground. "You're not a cruel person, or a liar. When you said that you cared for me to the point where it was painful to you when I was in pain, I knew you were telling the truth. And I feel the same way, especially at this very minute. But that isn't the kind of person you need by your side right now, is it? I don't want you to hate yourself. I don't want you to feel as if you're betraying the people you left behind by investing so much into another person."

"Then let me be honest with you now before you think that way for any longer. What I did that night was, as I told you before, in the spirit defiance. It wasn't a love act or anything more than solving a particular want within me, something that could only be satisfied by a physical sign that I mattered to someone. I didn't need the time afterwards to process what it meant, because I knew from the beginning it was something I would regret. I knew it wasn't fair to Dairren from the very start, because he intended it to be something tender, something loving. And I knew from the beginning that it wasn't fair to myself, because my sole intention was to break the heart I had given up hope in. I used him, and used myself. That was what it was. That was who I was back then."

At last she leans forward and takes his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "I broke it in more ways than I was expecting. It rested in pieces in my chest until I met you. You were the one who painstakingly pieced it back together, just like with your mother's amulet, whether you realized you were doing it or not. That's why I need you here. It may not be the ideal time or place, but it's the only time and place we have. I meant what I said to the Guardian about Dairren. The thing I regretted most was knowing he had given me more than I had given him. And I won't make that same mistake with you. I'm not entering into this with half a heart. Please understand that."

He rests his forehead against her, brushing away the tears running down her cheeks. "I understand. But please. Let me worry about you a little longer. You're the one who has already given the most, and I want to catch up to you so you know that I'm also in this with my entire heart."

Alistair holds her against him for a long time, saying nothing further but allowing her to cry silently against his chest. The world continues on around them, but the sounds of the others in the camp—Alixire's laughter, Leliana's music, Wynne's soft and soothing storytelling, Zevran's unabashed boasting at his prowess at Wicked Grace—fade into a distant and comforting hum. This is the world as it ought to be, Dulcia thinks. Even though she now has faith enough to be content with only with herself, the world is a better place with Alistair and the others in it. She has always been the pillar, the one for others to lean upon and to use as a constant outlet of support, but for now it feels good to have someone else holding her up and adding to her strength. Alistair had been wise to bring up what she'd said before about the Maker not giving burdens to shoulder alone. The world He'd made is a dangerous and chaotic place where nothing is certain other than death, but at least it is a place where no one, if they look hard enough and are open to the beautiful and terrible emotions that fall in with life and love, has to be alone.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **Morrigan gives Hannon a magical ring (which is not a sign of any sort of commitment at all, she firmly reminds him) and Hannon decides to test its powers out.


	41. Hannon: Binding Ring

**A/N: **Oh, this chapter. I just cannot be serious when I'm writing as Hannon, and thanks to playing the euphemism game with my friends (the one from 'Whose Line is it Anyway') the end part with Arlindria took a different turn than I was expecting. Ah, well. I was operating on What Would Hannon Do? mode, and this was what my brain came up with. Enjoy!

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**Forty-One. Hannon: Binding Ring.**

Hannon stares intently at his palm, barely believing what he sees resting in the center between his life line and heart line. It looks like a ring, a simple gold band much like the one he always wears on his finger as a parting gift from the Keeper, but all the same, he wonders if he is mistaking it for something else. He has only just begun his pursuit of Morrigan, and other than obeying her sexual demands—which is no small task on its own—he hasn't gotten around to doing much else in his plot to ensnare her heart. He doesn't have the leisure he had back in the Dalish camp where most of his days were filled with the mundane occupations he enjoyed doing, which he could indulge in to his heart's content as long he completed his hunts and was available whenever one of the elders required him. Between the darkspawn and maneuvering through the Grey Warden treaties, he's been surprisingly busy doing his job as one of the few surviving Wardens of Ferelden. When he'd been recruited, he hadn't imagined he'd enjoy this life so much, but there's something about it that perfectly suits him. He enjoys the challenges of their struggles as well as getting to know the others around him, who are shaping up to be more complex and intriguing than he ever could have imagined.

In any case, he certainly hasn't made enough progress with Morrigan to warrant a ring. Any daughter of Asha'belannar should not be so easily won; she should be a chase through a thick and twisted forest, and she should never be forthcoming with her love, even if he does gain it. She should struggle against herself and her better nature, and only yield when she's exhausted every other method without being able to find an escape. A ring is a sign of commitment and love to most, which is something he hardly expects from her at this stage in their relationship, or, for that matter, any stage at all.

"A… ring?" Hannon asks, turning it over in his hands. He feels something pulsing slightly beneath the metal. It's a type of magic he is unfamiliar with, something ancient and unknown to himself and his tribe. Perhaps it is a relic of Asha'belannar's, or something with more importance than the simplicity of its surface. He does not know enough about it to tell on his own.

"Don't get any ideas about it," Morrigan says quickly. "It's not what you think."

"Do you mean it isn't a ring, or it doesn't mean what I think it does?" Hannon's lips curl upwards into a smile. "So I guess we're not about to be married barefoot in the Wilds, then?"

"Please tell me you don't indulge in those sorts of ridiculous delusions. I told you from the very beginning that if you were looking for a bride, you'd have to look elsewhere."

"Now, now, lethallin. As much as I would love to see what you'd devise for a wedding dress, you know I cannot marry a shemlen. One day I wish to go back and find my clan again, and I can't go chasing after them with little Halfling tots in tow. Think of the shame!" He smiles again, rolling the ring between his fingers. "So if this isn't just a ring, what is it?"

"Tis a link that once belonged to my mother. She said that if I was ever captured by hunters, she could use this ring to find me wherever I was, no matter how far away I'd strayed. I dismantled it when we left the Wilds, of course. Where I go now is none of her business, and even if something were to happen to me out here, I'm sure you and your fellows could handle the situation without her interference. But the magic she used in it was indeed crafty. Tis a waste to let such a thing go unused."

"So if I wear it, Asha'belannar will now be able to find _me_ wherever I am? That would seem to me to be the last thing you'd want."

Morrigan rolls her eyes. "I changed the magic with a spell of my own similar to what she once used. Now _I_ will be able to find whoever wears this ring on their finger. Namely, I will be able to seek out you."

"Me? So you'll know whatever I'm doing?" Hannon laughs to himself, imaging the possibilities. "In other words, if I make any secret visits to the Pearl, you can catch me red handed?"

"Would you do something so vulgar? If you have any intention of mucking around in filth, I'll take that ring back and any interest I ever had in you with it." She glares at him darkly. "Tis not to track you, you ignorant child. If you were captured, which is not an inconceivable thought given your amount of enemies, tis only to help me find you and keep you safe from harm. In the battle against the darkspawn, I believe you are much too important to risk."

"You bet I am. The death toll due to consumption of inedible herbs would be staggering without me here. And who else would speak to the wind and birds in my absence?" He whistles underneath his breath, sending the birds in the nearby trees into a frenzy of chirping. "Does it work both ways? Your ring?"

"Do you mean would it help you find me if the situation arose where such a thing would be necessary? I know not. I have not tested it properly, though I suppose it would not be unthinkable. But I do not see the need for it. Were I to disappear this very moment without a trace, I'm sure twould not be long before you came ambling over the hills asking me insipid questions as if we had never been apart. And as I have no inclination at present to quit your company, I do not foresee why you would have need to find me. Tis not I all these angry hordes are after."

"So this is for purely practical purposes, I see."

"Disappointed? Did you expect me to hand pick a rose for you and demand you to return a sentiment of affection? Not all of us can be romantic fools like our companions."

"Who do you take me for? I respect you for your elusiveness and your refusal to be a romantic fool, though there is really no shame in being one if that is what you like and want in a person. I do not want you to pamper me. I want to play this little game with you until the end, and enjoy every moment while it lasts."

He slides the ring onto his finger and winks at her. "I guess I belong to you now, daughter of Asha'belannar. Keep your watchful eyes always at my back."

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Though Morrigan had sworn the ring was entirely reserved for an occasion when he would be in danger and in need of rescue, Hannon has his doubts. Even for someone as adamantly independent as Morrigan, the temptation of keeping tabs on someone is too great to pass up. Creator knows he would have indulged in such a practice on Merrill back among the Sabrae after she'd taken to hiding from his constant questions regarding her magical studies. With an enchanted ring on his side, he would have been happy to bother her for days without end, exhausting even her ready supply of patience.

He knows Morrigan is lying when she says she wouldn't care if he went off to a brothel in his own spare time. She may be independent, but she is certainly possessive when it comes to who and what she owns; the things that belong to her are for her alone to touch, and anyone who strays too close is a rival to be dealt with immediately. She's even bothered by the time Hannon spends with Alixire showering her with questions about the Circle and her training against demons, which everyone else can see is purely platonic. Alixire has her own muddled relationship to work through, but Morrigan still warned him away from her, claiming that Alixire could only content herself with pointless endeavors for so long before her own physical desire caught up with her.

Hannon cannot resist the idea of testing the ring out. If he does frolic off to some brothel and Morrigan comes after him, it will be proof of _something_. Not love, but a precursor. The more she wishes to monopolize him, the deeper she'll fall into his trap and realize she cannot have anyone else _but _him. That is what he wishes most of all: to train her heart so thoroughly that the idea of being without him so repugnant that the ring will come to symbolize more in her heart than a quaint trick to rescue him from danger. He wants to see the anger on her face as she pulls him away from his perceived sins, anger that springs not from disgust in him as a person, but disgust that she has not fully placed herself as first in his heart and secured him entirely.

"Princess Da'len," Hannon calls out to Arlindria as she idles by the fire, gazing up at the sky. She has been recovering from her betrayal at the hands of Gorim slowly but surely, though she requires occasional distraction to cheer herself up as the buds of romance continue to flourish in the camp. Alixire has for the most part taken up this task, not quite being happily in love herself at the moment, but Hannon from time to time enjoys engaging the former princess in a game of cards while simultaneously asking her questions about the durgen'len and their baffling habits. "You up for some Wicked Grace right now?"

"Why not? Should I set up a game by the fire?"

"It's a cold night. Why don't we go to that quaint little place on the seaside in Redcliffe since we're still so close to town?"

"_The brothel_? Are you crazy, or just playing a practical joke on me right now?" Her mouth trembles slightly, curving into a ghost of a smile. "It looks like you may have another kind of game of cards in mind. You look like a man who plays with a full stack, if you know what I mean."

"Aha, and now you're the one teasing me Da'len." He leans in closer, giving her his most seductive look. "But you're right. They don't call me the ace of spades for nothing."

"Hmm, I always wanted to have the ace of spades in my hand." She chuckles, her eyes lighting up with playful excitement. It must have been a long time since she'd had a good laugh, especially about this particular subject.

"But you have a much, much nicer deck than me, Da'len. Perhaps we could play with it sometime?"

"Well, it's been unused for a while, but you have strong enough hands to do the trick, as long as you're gentle."

"When it comes to this sort of game, my hands are always winning ones. Trust me."

"You know," Morrigan says in a loud voice from behind him, "if you wanted to subtly engage in vulgarity to see my reaction, tis a better idea to do it outside of camp where I can't hear every word you're saying."

"Just raising a friend's spirits, lethallin." Hannon shrugs, abandoning his original plan. He doesn't have to go anywhere to incite Morrigan's jealousy, he realizes. He can do it just fine from the comfort of the camp fire and receive the exact same pleasing results.

"Are we done telling dirty jokes now?" Arlindria sighs, looking despondent again. "I had a good one to go with that 'raising' remark. Maybe I should do this with Leliana or Zevran instead. I'm sure they have better ones than I can come up with."

"Yes, be a good little girl and keep your distance," Morrigan quips, shooting daggers with her eyes in the direction of the dwarf. "I'm taking this one and teaching him a lesson."

"Okay! Have fun licking a lamppost in winter!" Arlindria smile slowly returns, and she waves flirtatiously. "I'm going off to find Zevran. Thanks for the fun, Hannon."

"I'm going to regret giving you that ring, aren't I?" Morrigan mutters, rubbing her forehead. "Perhaps keeping you safe is more trouble than it's worth."

"Perhaps, lethallin." He leans forward to plant an apologetic kiss on her forehead. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

0o0o0o0o0o0

**Coming Up: **When Marjolaine makes an unexpected reappearance in Leliana's life, Britomart is forced to question her own relationship with the former bard and how far she is willing to go to reconcile their pasts and move on.


	42. Britomart: Not Knowing

**A/N: **I am in absolute heaven now. Where I live in Ohio is enjoying an unexpected reprieve from our usually freezing March weather, and its been in the high sixties all week. I've been spending more time enjoying the warm spell while it lasts (and it won't last for very long, knowing Ohio. We have a saying that goes, "If you don't like the weather here, wait a minute"), but I've at last found a moment to work some more on my little story. Britomart and Leliana are up, sharing their minds by moonlight.

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**Forty-Two. Britomart: Not Knowing.**

"Who do you think I am, really?"

Britomart purses her lips and turns to her companion, starting at the sound of Leliana's quiet voice as she breaks through the silence of the deep night. Leliana is resting on her back looking up at the moon, her hands clasped into a pillow behind her head and her expression guarded and indecipherable. They are supposed to be engaged in their night watch duties, but the area they have camped outside of Denerim is peaceful, especially compared to the less populous routes they have been travelling as they seek out the Dalish clan with which the Wardens have a treaty. The darkspawn are still lingering in the south, and the most pressing threat where they are now is Loghain and his fervent pack of supporters who want nothing more than to close the net on the remaining Grey Wardens and have them out of the political conflict for good.

"Who do I think you are?" Britomart echoes, following Leliana's gaze upwards towards the sky. The moon is full, and the camp is bathed in a soft white light that feels almost warm and benevolent on the skin. She has heard stories of humans associating the moon with lunacy and inconstancy, but as a dwarf who has seen so little of the surface and has still yet to be fully familiar with its many oddities, Britomart sees the moon she had been locked away from in Orzammar with different eyes than a desensitized human does. It is a strange object, a craggy and jagged rock poised up in the sky as a counterpart to the sun, but its delicate glow makes it seem almost gentle and romantic to her. Unlike the sun, it bears witness to the secrets of the night, the hidden and more telling sides of people that they are too afraid to face up to during the day. It sees passion and guilt in equal measure, but it watches impartially, shining just enough light to reveal what needs to revealed while keeping the rough edges cloaked in darkness until the morning.

"Who do I think you are?" she repeats again, turning her eyes to a cluster of stars that form what looks to her like a budding rose. "What brought this on?"

"When I was out scouting today with Hannon and Alain for the elven landships, we were ambushed by a small party of hired assassins," Leliana answers. "I thought they were the Crows at first, but they weren't. They were hired by someone living out of Denerim, someone who particularly wanted _me_ dead."

"Marjolaine," Britomart guesses, keeping her eyes focused on the stars. "So she's found you."

"Yes. The man himself didn't say so, but who else could it be? She is the only one I know of with a vendetta against me that has nothing to do with any of you. I do not understand why she would do this, but I guess she must want me dead because of what I know of her. Even though I have never moved to speak against her to authorities, she still must doubt me. Even now."

"And you know she's in Denerim?"

"Her assassin gave me her address. I know we cannot follow the lead now since we're occupied trying to find the Dalish, but… I would very much like to see her again before all of this is over. There are issues that we left unresolved that need to be dealt with."

"Naturally." Britomart's eyes stray to another cluster of stars. When she connects them together, this time she creates a bird in flight. "But what does any of this have to do with your initial question?"

"There was something you said to the Guardian of the Gauntlet that troubled me. 'This world is a place that makes us hate ourselves and lose faith in who we are.' I didn't want to agree with you at the time. It is such a harsh view to take on a world that has so much potential for happiness."

"But now you feel differently?"

"I still believe in this world. I know the Maker did not create us for the purpose of breaking us, and that there is a greater purpose to all that we suffer. But perhaps you made a valid point when you suggested that it is a near impossibility to understand who we ourselves are. The mind is an uncertain creation, filled with biases, flaws, and assumptions that cannot lead to a clear destination. Who am I to say what I am, or who anyone else is, for that matter?"

"If you think that, why are you asking me to tell you who you are?" Britomart snorts. "As you've said many times yourself, I'm not exactly a role model in embracing the elusive 'inner self'."

"This is true, but you will be as honest as you can with me, yes? You see me in ways different than I see myself, and I want to hear them. Your input matters to me, as blunt as it often is." Leliana pauses and turns her head to gaze at Britomart. "Ever since we were ambushed this morning, I've had troubling thoughts about what I will do when I see Marjolaine again. I tell myself that I will be graceful and efficient, telling her that I mean her no harm and I want this business closed before either of us are destroyed by it. But something in me says that this idealistic vision of mine is a lie. That I do not wish to offer an olive branch of peace, but that I _do_ secretly wish to destroy her. I know the Maker abhors these thoughts, but I cannot erase it. I cannot keep this stranger inside me from dominating the person I became in Lothering."

"And you wonder what I think of you?" Britomart meets Leliana's eyes and shakes her head. "As if that's an easy question to answer."

"I know you don't think much of me."

"That's a laugh. I don't think there's anyone else I think of more. I'm set in my opinions of all the others. Arlindria is a leader I would give my life to follow. Hannon and Zevran are aggravating, but impossible to hate. Dulcia is dear and beautiful, Alistair's a fool, Morrigan's a hard block of ice to break through, Alixire's strong and fearless, Alain and Sten are quietly deadly, and Wynne is too motherly for her own good. But you… I am uncertain of you. You are so many things in my mind, and none of them add up into a clear solution."

Leliana's mouth opens in surprise, and she quickly snaps it shut. "And… what are these things that you think when you think of me?"

"If you must know, I think there's a grating side of you that's convinced in the goodness of the Maker no matter how little evidence there is that such a being, if it even exists, cares for you. It makes me think that half of you is naïve and trusting, as if you are easily taken in by things that sound pretty to your ears or look well in your eyes. And then again, there is a brutal side to you, one that takes pleasure in the art of battle and defeating the enemies who surround us. This is the part of you I best understand, because it mirrors something in myself. But it is also the side with which you are most ashamed, because it comes into conflict with Sister Leliana, the pious girl hiding from her former life in the sanctuary of a comforting story of salvation."

"And you would rather I behaved more like the second self you mentioned?"

"No, because you already do behave as she does. I just wish you would acknowledge it. There is no shame in what you are."

"Just as there is no shame in what _you _are. But yet we still struggle with these questions, and hide from them until they hire assassins and try to kill us."

"Speak for yourself. The only people who are trying to kill me are doing it because I'm a Grey Warden, and not for the other reason. At least not yet."

"But when it catches up to you—and it will, of course—what will you do?"

"Pray to the ancestors that I'm strong enough not to shame myself again."

"And what constitutes shaming yourself? Is falling in love still an embarrassment for you?"

Britomart pauses, her cheeks turning a faint red. "I… I don't know. Love is… love is something I want to keep running away from. You heard what the Guardian said of me. I am a coward when it comes to matters of the heart. When something has bitten you once, it is only natural to shy away even if you want to be brave."

"And that's the reason why I am in no hurry to become the person that nearly ended up destroying my existence. Even if I really am who she is." Leliana sighs lightly, gazing back up at the moon. "But is that really all you think of me? If there are only two sides of me in your mind, you shouldn't have too much trouble in adding them up." Something in her voices sounds vaguely disappointed by this fact.

"You don't really want to hear about all of it, I think," Britomart mutters.

"Why? Is it really that bad?"

"It's not all bad."

"Then I want to hear it."

"Oh, won't you sod off? Am I not allowed to have my own private thoughts?"

Leliana pokes Britomart in the ribs and rolls on to her stomach so they are facing each other. "Private thoughts are no fun when they hide important things! Please let me hear them. You may not always care for me, but I simply adore you. Anything you have to say won't trouble me."

"You're too persistent. Don't you know that you should drop things when they get uncomfortable?" Britomart turns her face away from Leliana's and gazes blankly at Morrigan's tent in the distance. "The truth is, I don't get you at all. You're a devout follower of the kind of system I hate the most, where your apathetic so-called god has a band of supporters who use his so-called rules to beat the weak into submission, but still… I don't hate you. There is a sweetness in you that reminds me of my sister, but I don't dislike you for it like I always disliked her. I don't know why. Maybe because I get the feeling that no matter what a mess I make of myself trying to figure it out, you'll at least be proud of me for trying. Or maybe it's because…" She trails off, setting her hand in front of her mouth to muffle her words. "Maybe it's because you're beautiful."

"Beautiful? Is this something you say to all the pretty girls?"

"No."

"Not to Arlindria or Dulcia or Alixire?"

"No. They are beautiful, but they aren't delicate."

"And delicacy is so important to you?"

"I'm hard enough on my own, and I don't need another me in my life. One is enough for the moment."

Leliana leans in further so her face is above Britomart's. "But someone like me is okay to have in your life?"

"That's pushing it. I don't need someone troublesome. I can find trouble on my own without your help. And besides, what do you need with someone who spits on your god and doesn't want anything to with lo—"

Leliana pushes her finger against Britomart's lips, silencing her. "I'm not asking you what you need. I'm asking you what you want. And it's okay to have insensible wants, yes? It's okay to want something that goes against all logic. Or else why would I want you, hmm? And why would you look very much like you want me?"

She inches forward just slightly, brushing her lips against Britomart's for a moment before pulling away. "It's okay not to know everything," she whispers. "It's okay if we don't even know ourselves completely. As long as we know what we want, we'll find our way there. And I want to be beside you when that happens. Is that what you want?"

Britomart doesn't answer her. The moonlight is streaming through Leliana's hair, dousing her flushed face in a revealing glow. Everything she can possibly say is laid bare by the moon's knowing gaze, and even if she opens her mouth to deny or accept, she is sure Leliana already knows the truth. She simply closes her eyes and wraps her arms around Leliana's back, allowing her cowardice to fade away into darkness until the glaring light of the morning comes again.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **Wynne has been lecturing the Grey Wardens, and Arlindria wonders why she is being left out of the sermons. Love is in the air around the camp, but is the fact that Arlindria is exempt from it a good or bad thing?


	43. Arlindria: In Love and War

**A/N: **Back to Arlindria, who we haven't heard from in awhile. Gorim may be out of the picture, but the consequences of love are still are the forefront of Arlindria's mind. Is she better off with love or without it?

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

**Forty-Three. Arlindria: In Love and War.**

"BY THE BEARDS OF MY ANCESTORS, DON'T YOU DARE SAY ANOTHER WORD!"

Arlindria jerks her head at the sound of Britomart's shrieks from across the camp, almost dropping her plate and the cut of venison Hannon had so kindly provided for their dinner into the fire in her surprise. Instinctively, her hands seek the pommel of her blade, though she can't sense any darkspawn nearby or hear any indication of what may have upset her fellow dwarf. The others around the fire seem strangely unperturbed by her outburst, except for Sten who mutters a sharp "Parshaara!" under his breath before continuing to attack his own cut of meat.

"Is there something going on with Britomart that I don't know about?" Arlindria asks, dropping her hand away from her sword as the others continue to ignore Britomart's shrill wailing.

"It's just Wynne," Dulcia says mildly, eating her dinner as if nothing had happened. "Although that was a bit of an excessive reaction from Britomart. She should know that going off into a temper will give Wynne even more of a reason to lecture her."

"Ah, but she is such a darling little spitfire," Leliana says fondly. "She would not be half so charming if she always did what was acceptable, no?"

"But I wonder if we should step in for her?" Alixire wonders idly. "Britomart seems like the type to fall on her sword rather than endure the shame, and it would be a pity to lose her over something like this."

Arlindria shakes her head in confusion. "Lose her over something like what? What is Wynne doing to her?"

"Just exploring the depths of her—" Hannon begins.

"Must you make everything sound so vulgar?" Morrigan interrupts. "The old hag is preaching to her about her sacred duties as a Grey Warden, just as she has been preaching to the others ever since this morning. I say someone should cut out her tongue and have done with it."

"Have we been failing in some respect?" Arlindria asks, surprised at this answer. Ever since their first visit to Denerim and Gorim's unexpected betrayal, she has been throwing herself into killing the darkspawn with a verve matched only by Alain, whose natural talent easily surpasses her own. With nothing else left to her, she has been glad for the distraction and consuming task of fighting the endless supply of corrupt beings that threaten Ferelden. The more darkspawn she kills and the more competent she grows, the more and more her heart mends and reforms into what it once was. What she had told the Guardian at the Gauntlet in Haven had been correct: the loss of Gorim had been due to her quest to achieve what she wanted, but she does not regret her pursuit of that want in the least bit. It had been bigger than anything else she felt, bigger even than her own physical desires and need for affection, and if she had abandoned it for anyone's sake other than her own, she would have been unhappy and resentful, cursed by the limitless 'What if's' of what she had let go.

"We have been failing in only one respect," Dulcia answers, resting her hands over Alistair's. "By giving into the demands of our hearts before harkening to the demands of Ferelden's. That is what Wynne has been speaking of."

"In other words," Hannon whispers into Arlindria's ear, "too much thinking about sex and not enough thinking about saving the world."

"I can understand her thinking that about you, maybe," Arlindria whispers back, lifting an eyebrow. "But the others seem pretty devoted to what we're doing here. Surely she has no reason to lecture Britomart and Alain, at the very least."

"Don't be so sure about City Boy," Hannon laughs. "He may be as lethal as ever, but what if Zev dared to proposition him while the Archdemon was in the middle of slaughtering people? He'd be left with an ethical dilemma on his hands! How would he possibly choose?"

"I can hear everything you're saying," Alain mutters under his breath.

"And Da'mi, your little friend, if a darkspawn was trying to kill her precious Leli—"

Hannon is silenced by a sharp smack to the back of his head delivered by Britomart herself. "I don't want to hear about it coming from you, too, elf," she snarls. To Arlindria's eyes, she appears uncharacteristically discomposed. The tanned skin of her cheeks is tinted a violent red, and her hands are trembling uncontrollably at her sides.

"What, did the grandmother embarrass you, Da'mi? Still in denial over the intrigues of your love life?"

"I don't have one. And even if I did, it's not any of her business. How dare she question my fitness as a Warden? I didn't leave Orzammar just to have someone else tell me I'm a failure at what I do."

"Now, now," Arlindria murmurs soothingly. "Surely she means well. Wynne may enjoy a good lecture, but she's not a bad person. If she has any advice to give, it must be for your own benefit."

"And I would argue that enjoying the love of a decent person is entirely to our benefit," Dulcia sighs, her eyes growing distant. "It may make us in some ways weak, but that doesn't mean it can't make other parts of us strong. Don't you agree, Alain? What would your mother say?"

"That there is no point in killing if you have no one you love enough to protect," he answers. "Weaknesses are only weaknesses if you allow your enemy to see them and use them against you. If you keep them in your heart and share them only with the person you love, they are only capable of good."

"Hmm." Arlindria muses for a moment, reflecting on this statement. It's a truthful thought, one she has no qualms with. She has always seen herself as the protectorate of her people, and this role has inspired her to become a better warrior over the years, if only to serve them more securely. _But does this sort of simplistic and loyal love encompass how I felt for Gorim, Trian, or Bhelen? Did I love them enough to protect them at all costs, using the weakness of my love as a strength, even when they turned against me?_

Arlindria bites her lip, unable to draw a conclusion. She does not know enough of these matters to understand on her own, but it doesn't worry her at the moment. Even if she doesn't exhaust her efforts philosophizing over the nature of the heart, it is no matter; she knows someone who does, someone who would be glad to talk to her at length until she perfectly understood.

0o0o0o0o0o

"So I take it your friend Britomart is unhappy with me at the present moment," Wynne sighs as Arlindria sits down beside her tent after she's finished her meal. "Rest assured that I meant no harm to her or the others. I was merely presenting my opinion to them, and what they do with it is entirely up to their judgment."

"Perhaps it wasn't wise to badger her about Leliana," Arlindria says gently. "She's not comfortable with it, and probably won't be forthcoming with her feelings until she is."

"So I've learned. Her reaction was certainly the most… vocal… but I'm glad that she and your companions heard me out and put at least some thought into their responses. They may have their faults, but they certainly are honest."

"What did the others say to you? I'm sure Hannon was as saucy as ever, but Alain, Dulcia, and Alixire are usually civil."

Wynne chuckles to herself she remembers her earlier discussions. "Your Dalish friend told me that the only reason he is with the Grey Wardens to begin with is because of Flemeth and her daughter, and that Duncan was well aware of this before he died. Just because I've decided to spout 'nonsense,' as he so charmingly called it, it won't change his priorities. He did express a particular enjoyment in killing darkspawn, and assures me he will continue to kill them to his heart's content, as long as his goal is the same as Morrigan's and Flemeth's." She shakes her head in bemusement. "Dulcia and Alain were more practical, saying that they needed these relationships at this time in their lives to grow stronger and clarify their identities. As for Alixire, I hardly had the heart to say anything to her. What she has with that Templar is something important that will change things for mages and Templars, but I did advise her to put her thoughts of it aside until the darkspawn are dealt with."

"And you are sure you are advising them correctly? It was my impression that any feelings of passion, romantic or otherwise, were useful in spurring on war."

Wynne considers her answer for a moment before speaking. "Your companions are remarkably kind people. Even those with slightly crooked moral codes are compassionate souls at their core, and I believe with all my heart that they will bring good to Ferelden. But their kindness will put them in difficult situations if they continue to place love above their duties. Love is a selfish thing that demands devotion entirely upon one thing to the exclusion of all else. My concern is that if they ever come to a point where they must choose between the lives of many and the life of the one they love, they will choose their lovers without hesitation. It speaks well of them that they are all earnest in their own ways, but I would rather see that resolve employed on our current task rather than these entanglements of theirs. Even if they do not heed my words, I wanted them to at least understand that."

"If they must ever depend on someone to save the lives of the many, I will do it. I have nothing that precious to lose, as long as it's for the benefit of Ferelden and Orzammar."

"And that is why I believe you are the strongest among them. Others may have more physical strength or raw talent than you, but you alone are the ideal Grey Warden, a committed vanquisher of darkspawn and a servant of the people."

Arlindria beams in pride, but her smile slowly fades when her mind once again turns to Gorim. "I had someone when this started," she admits, looking off in the direction of Denerim. "It ended not long after we left Ostagar, and it was his decision rather than mine. He told me that because of who we were, we could never be together. I denied his appraisal of my emotions, but now I wonder if he was right. Because I am that committed servant of the people, I can never love in the ways that others do."

Wynne places a comforting hand on her shoulder. "There's a fair chance you're right. I am sure, based on what I know of you, that your love for this man was genuine, but often the way one person loves is not sufficient to the object of their affection. Your love came with the price of being divided among other people and other tasks, and that may not have been enough for him, even though it was best for you. Not everyone is meant to be content with being second to something else. Perhaps these feelings were what drove him apart from you, rather than the lack of any feelings of love at all."

Arlindria sighs and bows her head. "I almost wish it had been that he never loved me at all. If he loved me and my reciprocal love wasn't enough to sate him, then the failing was mine. I have no right to be bitter with him, but I cannot abandon my anger so easily. Even if it was too little for him, I truly meant it. I couldn't give up everything on his behalf, but I would have given what I could."

"Any blame there is can be shared both ways, but such a thing is blameless. Your heart is your own, and his heart belongs to him. If they do not fit together, you may toss as much blame as you want, but in the end, perhaps they simply were not made to fit, and that is all that can be said of the matter."

"I see…"

Arlindria absently runs her hand across her family shield, feeling the familiar patterns of the metalwork. "I will be as honest with you as the others have been. A part of me will always love Gorim. He is a precious part of my past, and though my future is moving in a different direction, I still carry him with me wherever I go. But my past does not change the fact that the innocent lives in this kingdom are the true people I would die to protect. So please do not be angry with the others for allowing their hearts to be swayed by love. I will act in their stead whenever it is needed, and serve the needs of the many when they can only serve the ones they love. Let them have their happiness, and I will have mine."

Wynne smiles in pride, nodding her head to Arlindria's wishes. "I suppose I will put my preaching aside for the moment, then. The Wardens of Ferelden have nothing to fear as long as you continue to fight bravely at their side. The Maker smiles kindly down upon you, Arlindria. You truly are a Queen among women."

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **When Zevran comes to collect on what Alain owes him, will the city elf take the leap or continue to back in fear of where this new path will take him?


	44. Alain: We Were Here

**A/N: **Yikes! Sorry for the big delay in getting this out! I've been a bit under the weather with allergies, so I've been taking the time to rest and take it easy so I can feel better for the busy month of April. Anyways, Alain is back to at last settle things with Zevran, whose wooing ways apparently haven't gone unappreciated. Hannon will be up next, where we'll finally take care of our second-to-last Warden treaty. Enjoy!

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**Forty-Four. Alain: We Were Here.**

No matter how far they go and how often they travel, Alain can't quite shake the feelings of restlessness from his former life in the Alienage. He is fine during the day when they can be occupied with their tasks and endearing themselves with the populace of Ferelden, but at night the need to keep propelling himself forward hits him with an unbearable strength. His tent seems too small and the outside world too big and enticing, and if he allows himself to close his eyes and fall into a peaceful sleep, he worries that everything out there will disappear and he will wake up to find himself back in his familiar restrictions, ignorant of all the beautiful possibilities that the wide open world presents.

Back in the Alienage, whenever this feeling struck Alain he would sneak out of his hovel and head to the vhenedhal, the highest point in the city. He was a fairly decent climber—not to the extent that Hannon is, but good enough to tackle the vhenedhal without much trouble—and as long as there was no one else outside to witness his indiscretion, he would ease himself up the branches and gaze across the tops of the shacks into Denerim. The sight of the city wasn't enough to content him, but it was something, a small thing to carry with him as he went through the mundane motions of his life. There was a world out there that had a place he was meant to fill, and if he was patient and bided his time, one day he would be able to find that place and actually live instead of waiting for his life to begin.

In their camps across Ferelden, there are rarely trees that can stack up to the vhenedhal, but whenever Alain is too overcome by his thoughts to sleep, he looks for the best tree to climb and settles comfortably on the branches for the night to gaze up at the scenery and night sky. He doesn't know much about the Fade or where it physically exists, but he likes to image the spirits of the dead return to the Maker in a kingdom in the sky, perhaps on a star or in a place higher than the eye can see. He doesn't know why, but he feels closer to his mother when he can see the sky, as if the stars themselves are her eyes gazing down on him, watching over him and making sure he is happy with his life, even though she can no longer be in it.

"I've been having a strange time here, mother," he whispers, leaning his head against the trunk of the tree he's chosen for the night. "We're only days away from the Dalish camp now, according to Hannon. He says that if I want, when all this is over, I can probably come back and live with them for good. But I'm not sure if it's for the best. I still want to be close to father. He's never been as independent as you and me, and I don't want him to feel lonely."

The stars above him twinkle, and he finds himself smiling. _She is listening_. _I don't know from where, or how far away she is, but she is still here, her spirit lingering over this land to guide me._

"And there's always Zevran," he continues, biting his lips. "I don't know where that one is going to go, but it is fine to not know, I guess. I can't stop thinking about what you said to me before. That I should only use my voice to speak to people who deserve to hear it. I don't know if he is what you meant. He plays around and never settles for just one thing and is about as irreverent as they come, but he is the one who opened my eyes about who I am and what I want. I don't have much of a voice to give, but I hope it's fine with you that he's the one I want to give it to. Even if I cannot have him for good, I want him to take a piece of me with him when he goes. As a reminder of the first time I've ever felt this way about anyone. I don't think it's something I'll regret, do you? I think this is something that needs to happen."

A soft gust of wind blows in his face, and he closes his eyes to accept its touch. He remembers his mother's hands as they brushed against his face as a child. She was a tough person, but she was always so very gentle with Alain and Cyrion. _It's because I love you,_ she always said_, more than I love anything else in the world, more than any other thought, feeling, or idea I've ever had or felt._ _I protect you because I love you, and I love you because you are you. It's as simple as that._

"It_ is_ so simple," Alain sighs to himself. "So simple, and yet so powerful. I never believed in it before because it didn't make sense to me that something so irrational and all-encompassing could be so straight forward. But I know my heart now. We want what we want, and we do what we can to fill that need. It really is as simple as that."

He opens his eyes again and looks back at the rings of stars in the night sky. "Thank you for listening to me, mother. Whatever happens next and no matter where I go, you will always be with me. You are a memory I will carry with me through everything, because I loved you more than words can ever express."

"Now what is this I hear?" a voice says from the base of the tree. Alain looks down to see Zevran gazing up at him, his arms and legs already wrapped around the trunk to climb up. "Who knew the night sky was such a seductress?"

"Being so lovely, how can she help it?" Alain says softly, giving Zevran a hand up to the higher branches. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, my Grey Warden. Wynne saw you go off into the forest, and I thought I would follow you in case you needed someone to talk to. You have been looking rather weary of late, I've noticed."

"Haven't we all?"

"Of course. But it's a greater crime for weariness to touch a face like yours. You have such a way of enduring things that puts worry lines on your forehead." He pokes the spot between Alain's eyebrows playfully. "It's not becoming on you. Someone so young should have more smiles to spare."

"It just seems so strange to smile too often during such a miserable time."

"Is it really so miserable? I rather thought you'd be happy with the way things were going for you. Whenever you talk about your life in the city, you always sound dissatisfied."

"Yes, but so many people are suffering. It's hard to smile sometimes when I think of how much." However, he gives Zevran a small and genuine grin. "But I am happy tonight, I guess."

"Are you? Your overtures to the sky were well-received?"

He shrugs. "I can never be sure, but I think someone out there hears me."

"Ah, how unfair of you! You speak volumes to the stars, but the rest of us have to content ourselves with a word or two from you whenever we can get it."

"If you want more, all you have to do is ask. If it's you, I will tell you everything you want me to say."

Zevran lifts an eyebrow, his expression turning more serious. "Before I left to come find you, that bosomy mage of ours told me about the little discussion the two of you had about me. She said that she told you that I, rascal that I am, was only ever after only one thing, but that still you insisted that you would not give me up over that particular reason. Is this true?"

Alain nods, not hiding from the truth. It doesn't matter if Zevran knows that he is serious even if Zevran himself is not. Even if Alain gets hurt, it is something he is walking into willingly. It his choice to make, the choice between leaving and losing the knowledge of something deeper or staying and perhaps having to sacrifice the person he loves in order to have the experience of loving to begin with.

"How odd of you. Every time you are given opportunities to escape, you choose to stay. I never expected this. Honestly, I thought I would scare you off at the very beginning."

"I may have been afraid, but my mother left me with the tools to overcome my own cowardice. Besides…"

"Besides…?"

"It was you, too. You made me want to stay."

Zevran smiles smugly. "Hmm. It seems my tactics have reached the legendary level if they work on even the stoic Alain."

"It wasn't the tactics, I think. I think who I am just likes who you are underneath all your games and jokes. You may not think so, but you really are an admirable person. If you just wanted a quick physical relationship, you would have gone after Hannon or someone else. But you took the time to help me sort everything going on in my head out. It may not mean much to you, but it's something to me."

"Just don't let it get out. I have a reputation to maintain."

"Of course."

Zevren reaches forward to toy with Alain's hair, his fingers weaving through the pitch black strands. "I can't promise anything. I take my pleasures where I can find them, and I don't see anything wrong with that. But I will make a deal with you. Since you are the thing that will provide the most pleasure for now and the near future, I have no intention of throwing you away as the charming Wynne thinks I will. So don't think you can go running off to someone else as soon as you're through with me. I don't share well when I have something that is meant just for me, and as long as you swear I won't have to lend you to anyone else, I'll promise that you won't have to lend me either."

Alain blinks. "Who am I supposedly running off to? Hannon? Alistair?"

"This conflict will not last forever, you know. There will be others in other places you go."

"That may be so, but I don't think it's possible for there to be so many people in this world that I will love purely for who they are. It isn't easy to know someone's faults and shortcomings and still love them in spite of it. Thinking of it that way, it's a surprise that anyone can love so many people in a lifetime."

"You have a pure heart, my Grey Warden. I am sure you of all people will not be at a loss when it comes down to it." Zevran withdraws his hand from Alain's hair and moves it to his cheek. "But let's forget everyone else for now. It seems you've resigned yourself to the fact that I'll have you sooner or later. And as the saying goes, there is no time like the present."

"You want that to happen... in a tree?" Alain asks blankly.

"Ha! Well, there's always _against_ a tree, but I think a virgin like you deserves a little more courtesy. Besides, you're a bit tired as it is. Let's go back to your tent, and I'll help you get to sleep. Does that suit you?"

Alain glances up the sky. Clouds have begun to move in, and the stars have become difficult to see, but he doesn't need any guidance to know what he wants tonight. All he's ever desired from life was something new and better than what he had back when he was forced to feel unfulfilled and aimless, and now at last he feels as if he is finding something separate from duty, obligation, or community, something that is solely for himself and his own wants. This itself is a wide open world like the one he gazed at from the vhenedhal, a world that cannot be explored, conquered, and labeled by a definitive map, but a place like the earth itself, dynamic and ever changing, a place whose particles constantly shift to reveal something different at a every turn, something new to love and find a deeper understanding of. Even if he cannot stay forever, he wants to at least leave his mark, and say _I was here in this place, and my heart believed enough in these arms, this soul, to feel for the very first time that I had a place to make a home._

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **Hannon returns among the Dalish and begins to question whether or not he belongs in his new life or his old.


	45. Hannon: Return of the Native

**A/N: **Unfortunately DAO does not allow the Dalish hero to return to his own clan (they're on their way to Sundermount for DaII purposes!), but Hannon at least gets to hang out with Dalish bros for awhile. But does he plan on returning one day, or has he found a purpose more important? Enjoy!

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**Forty-Five. Hannon: Return of the Native.**

It has been months now since Hannon has set foot inside a Dalish camp, but as soon as the clan's scouts lead him through the clearing abutting the Brecilian Forest, vivid memories flood him as if it has only been days since he was forced to leave his people. The voice of the clan storyteller as he entertains the children around the fire, the gentle hooves of the halla, the smells of treesap and sylvan wood, and the twang of bowstrings assault Hannon's senses and fill his heart with a bittersweet pang of longing for this life he has been so long without. He wants nothing more than to throw all of his extraneous cares away and sink into this familiar ground, allowing nature to heal him and return him to the young man who had been contented to live his life as a child of the earth.

"So this is a Dalish camp," Morrigan muses as the scouts lead them in the direction of the Keeper's caravan. "Tis much as my mother described it, although I see she forgot to account for the aura of hostility."

"It's because there are a great number of shemlen in this group," Hannon shrugs. "I'm sure Asha'belannar would not have faced any resistance from the elvhen if she ever condescended to come among us."

Morrigan snorts derisively. "You speak as if you do not believe she would ever do such a thing. Are you not aware of the fact that she has visited your own clan several times over the years, and is known personally by your Keeper?"

Hannon stops in his tracks. "Keeper Marethari never mentioned this to me."

"Tis no surprise to me, now that I think on it. Your mouth is not well known for discreteness, and my mother has always been one to keep her secrets carefully. I do not know what business she had with your Keeper, but my mother does not bother with trifles. Whatever it was, it was of some manner of importance. Perhaps it is something you should determine when you have the leisure." She pauses for a moment, her brows knitting. "I must admit that I'm surprised we have not encountered your tribe since you left. Were you informed of their next direction before you were brought to the Wardens?"

"We had planned to pack up camp due to the Blight, but if the Keeper had a place in mind, she did not inform me. But she is not a foolish woman. It is only natural that she would leave Ferelden until the threat passed."

"Then why would this camp not do the same?"

"That is something I will discuss with their Keeper when the time comes. But I think it would be a good idea if you shemlen stepped aside while I speak with Zathrian. As you see, the elvhen are wary of those who are not their kind."

"And I suppose you are some sort of special exception?"

Hannon tilts his head. "Exception?"

"You are fraternizing with plenty of humans, and doing so willfully. And on top of that, you have submitted to being my plaything with more joy than resistance."

"An exception," Hannon muses. "I will not claim to dislike shemlen as much as I once did. But there will always be a line between myself and the others, no matter how much I enjoy their company. My fated path in life will lead me different places than theirs will."

"I thought the inevitable end was the Deep Roads for you Wardens."

"But we will each go different ways before we reach that end. Some will go back to their homes, some will rebuild the Wardens, and some will become leaders of more than just this order. But for me? I will leave Ferelden and find my people wherever they are. I cannot imagine myself anywhere else."

Morrigan frowns disapprovingly. "This resolve it not something I expected to hear from someone who once declared himself unhappy with the way the Dalish drove their people along a singular path in life. Will you of all people be content to hunt simple game and become a father of a host of brats who will suffer the same control and limitations as you?"

Hannon gazes into her eyes without blinking. "And what will I do otherwise? Even though I am a Warden, my kind is as welcome to this land as the darkspawn are. Should I remain here and be hated when I can live happily elsewhere? It's not as if you will remain at my side when all of this is concluded, so why concern yourself?"

"And here I thought you would throw yourself on my mother back in the Wilds as soon as you had a chance."

"I would be just as likely to see her if I returned to my Keeper, if they are as good of friends as you say they are. I cannot run the risk of returning to your home in the Wilds if it means I will burden you with a presence you will have already tired of. Besides," he says, giving his ring a playful twist, "you will know where I am. If you or your mother wish to find me after I have served my purpose to you, you will know where to look."

Morrigan's frown deepens, but she says nothing more. His coolness towards her is a wildcard in his hand, one of his few methods of giving her some doubt as to whether or not she will abandon him or admit to herself that her feelings for him equate to a deep possessiveness bordering on the love she is so scornful of. He knows this maneuver is just as likely to scare her off as it is to draw her in, but it is a gamble he is willing to make in the greater scheme of the game. Though he would be happy to return to his clan and find a place among the People again, his place in the human world is not as distasteful as he made it sound to Morrigan. The ways of the Dalish are beloved to him, and just being back in a camp makes him ache with desire to exist in this familiar and proud paradise. But returning to his simple, structured life after being fully immersed in a more challenging and dangerous existence would be like a child giving up a security blanket only to come to rely on it more than ever. There would be no honor in returning to Marethari and assuming his former role as if nothing had ever happened and he himself had not been changed down to his very core.

After a few more moments, the scouts gesture to the bulk of their party to step aside to allow Hannon to approach the Keeper's aravel alone. In his own language, he requests the scouts to provide food and drink to his companions, and tells them that any rudeness on his companions' part he would take on his own shoulders and atone for as swiftly as possible.

Hannon had met Zathrian, the Keeper of the largest Dalish clan in Ferelden, a handful of times throughout his childhood, though he had only been an adolescent the last time they had interacted. Tradition required clans to greet each other whenever their landships pass, and his clan had crossed the path of Zathrian's on several occasions through the years. Hannon had liked Zathrian well enough, but there was something about Zathrian that always niggled the back of his mind. Like Marethari, he was imbued with a deep and ancient magic, but unlike her, he had a strange power encircling his heart, something different from anything he had ever felt before. Everyone assumed the magic was a part of the ancient lore the other elvhen had forgotten, but Hannon wasn't so sure. If Zathrian knew how to regain the secret of immortality, there was not a chance he would keep the information to himself and deny the People their heritage. He suspected Zathrian had made a pact with either a spirit or a demon, and that his immortality was much like Asha'belannar's in the sense that it was something he had created rather than inherited through his elven blood.

"Andaran atish'an, Hannon Mahariel," Zathrian says solemnly when Hannon approaches the aravel. "Keeper Marethari said I would be seeing you soon, and I see her words are as truthful as they always are."

"Andaran atish'an, Keeper Zathrian," Hannon replies, bowing. "You passed my clan as they were leaving Ferelden?"

"Yes. Marethari thought I would appreciate the information that a Dalish had joined the ranks of the Grey Wardens and was working to combat the Blight in Ferelden. I recognized your name when she gave it to me as well. You were the youngest and most naturally skilled hunter in her clan, and a promising future representative of our people."

"Ma serannas for your kind words, but things rarely go as we plan them. I am sure Keeper Marethari would say I am exactly where I need to be."

"Hmm. And you have found fair reception among the shemlen and the durgen'len, I trust?"

"Fair enough. We have made good progress in our task, and they have done their work as well as I have. I can only hope I have done the clan justice with my actions."

"Knowing you, young Mahariel, you've done more than act on behalf of the clan. You've always had your own agenda, as I understand it." He gazes at Hannon intently. "I suppose you've come here about the treaty this clan signed with the Wardens many years ago. But before we worry about official matters, you must be wondering about the location of your own clan. Marethari told me you would not find it necessary to know, but it is my belief that one should always maintain ties to their family. The Sabrae have gone to settle on Sundermount in the Free Marches, and intend to stay there for some time. And surely if you have progressed as much as you say you have, it will not long before you will able to return to your people."

"And you think that is what my Keeper would want?"

"Why wouldn't she? She may be gruff, but she does have a fondness for you. Her eyes shone with pride when she spoke of you, and she had faith you would do her trust in you justice."

"But does she wish for me to come back? I do not think she does." He closes his eyes, pressing his hands over his heart. "Melava inan enansal ir su araval tu elvaral u na emma abelas in elgar sa vir mana in tu sethneran din emma na. That is what she said to me before I left. I thought it was to soothe me from the pain I was suffering, but I think now that it must be something more."

"That poem is about the loss of Arlathan. _Time was once a blessing, but long journeys are made longer when alone within. Take spirit from the long ago, but do not dwell in lands no longer yours._"

Hannon nods. "I do not think these lands are mine anymore. I still hear the voice of nature, but I hear other voices now. These words are even harder for me to ignore. The darkspawn call to me, Keeper. And I hear a beautiful song of magic from the Witch of the Wilds, a song I believe was meant for my ears alone. I must set out on my own journey, and no matter how long it takes, I will reach my own Arlathan."

"You are firm, I see. I do not understand your choice, but you have leave to make it. Creator knows I was set on my own path, and it was my own, solitary decision, and I do not regret what I have done." He presses his hand against Hannon's forehead and closes his eyes. "Lath sulevin lath araval ena arla ven tu vir mahvir melana 'nehn enasal ir as lethallin."

"Keeper?"

"That is the missing part of the poem the Keeper gave you. _Be certain in need, and the path will emerge to a home tomorrow, and time will again be the joy it once was_. It is a difficult thing to believe in, but those words are the heart of what the Dalish are. You may be a Warden, but this is still your heart. Believe in Arlathan, Hannon. Believe in the joy you will one day find."

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**Coming Up: **With another treaty soon to be settled, Alistair realizes the moment will soon come when the Wardens will have to unite Ferelden and defeat the Archdemon and the darkspawn horde. With so much hanging in the balance, there is no time for regrets and leaving things undone. Dulcia may be willing to wait, but Alistair may have other things in mind as the conflict swiftly approaches.


	46. Dulcia: The Right Time

**A/N: **Oh, I have been waiting for this chapter for so long. Bwhahaha. I had a great time writing it, and I hope it does not disappoint expectations. Enjoy!

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**Forty-Six. Dulcia: The Right Time.**

"What is all that singing coming from the forest?" Dulcia asks as she sits down around the fire where the rest of her companions are serving themselves dinner. "I thought the elves were burying Zathrian this evening, but their voices do not sound as sorrowful as I would have expected."

"Is death always such a sad thing, Asha'nan?" Hannon asks, shrugging indifferently. "Keeper Zathrian was alive for long enough, and all the things he found joy in had long ago left him. The living fate he had chosen for himself was worse than death, so why should we not be glad that he has finally found peace? Don't you shemlen rejoice when the souls of your loved ones return to your god?"

"We are supposed to. But in practice, our funerals are sad occasions. We think more of the fact that we will never see our departed friends again than we do of their new happiness at the side of the Maker."

"That is because beings of the earth are selfish, and we wish to hold on to things that our not ours to keep. The elvhen are no exception, but we were often reminded that in the ancient days, back when our kind possessed immortality, our elders grew weary of life and realized that existing forever was not the path to happiness. Memories grow too burdensome, and the greatest joys in life become so distant that they are lost in tedious trek through endless minutes and days without end. Succumbing to uthenera, the endless sleep, is not a sad moment, but a decision to preserve what happiness remains before it is sacrificed to time. We are taught to take pleasure in the things we love while time is still ours, and then to pass contentedly when our time has no meaning anymore. Zathrian's time has ended, and there is no sorrow in that. Only honor."

"I remember that sentiment from long ago," Leliana says, closing her eyes. "When my mother died, a wise elven woman comforted me and told me that death was not something I should fear or hate. Our earthly bodies are only temporary things, and only when we shed them are our spirits able to fly free."

"Your spirits may fly, but we've always been told that ours return to the stone," Britomart interjects. "We return to where we were formed and become a part of it again. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and stone to stone."

"It's a similar idea, with the same feeling at its core." Leliana sighs and wipes a spot of moisture from her eye. "That song they are singing is one I am familiar with. The elven woman taught it to me. It is a song about uthenera, a song meant to give peace to the grieving."

"It is a part of our funeral rites," Hannon nods. "We struggle with grieving as much as you shemlen do, and we need to be reminded that joy can be found in sorrow, and beauty in despair."

They fall silent, and both Hannon and Leliana begin to softly sing along with the elves in the distance. Dulcia closes her eyes. She does not know what the words mean, but she can sense the comfort of them, like a gentle hand on her shoulder or a head resting against hers to give her support. _Beauty in despair_, she thinks to herself. _Just like my rose. Just like all of us._

As Hannon and Leliana sing, Dulcia feels hot tears slipping from her eyes, running down her cheeks and falling one by one into her lap. She isn't sad; she has had enough of that particular emotion torturing her and filling her with doubts, and she has reached a point where she can see past her own grief and into the hopeful direction of her future. In fact, she thinks she is more happy than anything else. In spite of all they have suffered and how close the world they love is to being corrupted by darkness, they have managed to find some small measure of peace in themselves and in each other. Dulcia can now think of her parents' faces without wishing death upon herself, and even her thoughts of being alone in the world have lost their power now that she is surrounded by so much pure and warmly given love. She can tell that the others are beginning to feel the same way themselves as well. There are still many things to find sorrow in, but there is as much joy as grief being felt now in their hearts, and even if sadness falls upon them in a moment or weakness or remembrance, there is always someone to dispel it, someone with a simple smile or a light hearted joke to chase all else away until there is no more reason to cry or feel pity over things that have long since passed.

_We are all very similar to one another_, Dulcia thinks, brushing away her tears. _We share, if not the burden of the same exact pain, at least a mutual reaction to a similar one. And fate conspired to bring us together and show us the way to heal each other's hearts. The world may be at risk, and we may be at the center of the storm, but this union of ours is a happy thing. All we can do is take pleasure in the things we love while time is still ours._

Dulcia feels a hand slide into hers, and she does not need to open her eyes to know who the warm and gentle skin belongs to. She simply allows herself to be pulled to her feet and led further away from the fire, to the place where her tent has been pitched for the night on the outskirts of their camp.

"Dulcia."

At the sound of Alistair's voice, she opens her eyes. He is looking down at her, his expression heavy and wanting, his eyes raking over her skin as if he cannot get enough of the sight of her, or as if he is worried she will disappear. She remembers a similar gaze from similar eyes from once upon a time, but there are enough differences there in his glance to set her heart beating wildly at the newness of it. There is more need than want in the way he looks at her, and his eyes touch upon her face in the way one would look upon something they cannot survive without rather than something they feel compelled to have at a particular moment for little particular reason.

"I… I don't know how to say this," he begins, placing his hands against her shoulders. "I don't know what to say at all."

"It's all right," she says softly, resting her hands over his. "I understand."

"But it isn't fair to you if I can't tell you what I mean to say. You deserve to hear everything. You…" He pauses, clearing his throat. "What Hannon said… about how we have to take things while we still have time… I couldn't stop thinking of you after he said that. We only have so much time, and when we die, we have to be content with what we did with our lives since we won't have the chance to go back to redo things. What is done is done, and what remains unfinished stays that way. And we… you and I… when it comes down to it, we have no idea how much longer we really have."

"Alistair," Dulcia murmurs, lifting a hand to stroke his flushing cheek.

He laughs nervously to himself. "I love you, you know. I love you too much that words are not enough anymore. I could say so many things, but nothing could cover even half of what I feel. That's why I don't know how to say this. I thought it would be easier, but every time I'm around you, I feel like my head's about to explode. I can't think straight. I can't even begin to say anything right."

"You say more than enough to me without words," Dulcia says gently. "Everything you do speaks to me perfectly."

"But it's not enough," he says again, his grip on her tightening. "Here's the thing: being with you makes me crazy. I can't even imagine being without you now. It's a pain I can't bear to think of. It would be a fate worse than death, just like Hannon said, and I don't want to spend whatever is left of my life keeping my distance and waiting for some fictional ideal moment to come before giving myself to you."

Dulcia's eyes widen. "You don't mean…?"

"I want to be with you here tonight," he answers her firmly. "I thought that it wasn't right or maybe that it's still too soon, but how can you even define what 'the right time' is? I don't know. All I know is what I feel. And what I feel is love… and desire… for you."

"But this is very important to you, isn't it? I thought you wanted to wait, and I have faith that we still have time enough. You don't have to push yourself if this doesn't feel completely right to you."

"It is right!" Alistair insists. "I thought I could wait for the perfect time and perfect place, but when will it ever be perfect? If things were perfect, I never would have even met you to begin with. We were both in the midst of terrible situations when we stumbled into each other, and we still managed to fall in love with each other in between the fighting and doubt and everything else." He bows his head. "I don't want to wait anymore. We'll waste time sitting around doing nothing if we wish for a perfect time. I am ready here and now. I know I've never done this before, but I… I want it to be with you. While we still have time."

"You're not giving up on our chances of survival are you?" Dulcia says lightly, squeezing his hands. "I was planning on us having much more time together when all of this is over."

"I have the same hope, but it may not work out that way. You don't know that it will. I don't know that it will. I'd like to say that I threw caution to the wind at least once. That I was able to find happiness in someone while she was still mine to have."

"I see." Dulcia slides against him, allowing the hands on her shoulders to drop to her back and envelope her. "I love you, too, Alistair. I want to be with you more than anything. I want to do it right this time, and to say that I loved someone with the strength of all my heart and didn't shy away from the greatest joy I will have to treasure for all my life. So if you're okay with accepting that, I am more than willing to let this happen. But if you change your mind, don't expect me to let you go so easily."

Alistair's cheeks flush as he gently eases her down onto her bedroll, his every ready smile wavering between happiness and anxiety. "I don't know why I still let you do this to me, Dulcia Cousland," he whispers with a shaky voice. "You would think I would be used to all your tricks by now. But still you have this strange power over me that makes me unable be calm around you. When will you lose it, I wonder?"

"As soon as you lose yours over me," Dulcia whispers back, pulling him against her and snaking her arm around his neck so her fingers can find his bare skin, the point of his pulse which races like a stallion and beats with as much passion as her own.

_This world has felt so much pain, _she thinks as Alistair presses her lips against her and trails a curve against her neck, uncertain but firm in his movements. _It has seen tears and dreams and nightmares and any number of crushed hopes along with the few instances of marginal happiness. This place has held the burden of corruption and evil, and bore witness to a thousand harmful secrets and betrayals. But this world is not a sad place. We live because only by living can we find happiness enough to survive and die for, and because we, we who have learned to love each other so powerfully, so wholly, have the answer within us to bring peace to this troubled ground. We alone have the power to give this world a memory of love before the darkness washes over or time runs away from us and erases our traces on this earth. Please give us time, Maker. I love this man more than anything I have ever had before. Give me time enough to hold this love close to my heart and live in happiness with it. Give him time enough to hold onto this memory and realize that we took an imperfect time and imperfect place and made the most perfect thing we have it in our powers to make._

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**Coming Up: **As the situation with Marjolaine reaches a boiling point, will Britomart be able to stand proudly by Leliana's side while shame and self-loathing still plague her heart?


	47. Britomart: The Grand Game's Finale

**A/N: **Britomart may not be up front with herself and others, but it may take a master of deceit to drive her to a little honesty about the pretty bard who has taken over her life. Orlesians are known for their pride, but it's time for Marjolaine to eat some humble pie!

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**Forty-Seven. Britomart: The Grand Game's Finale.**

"Where are we going?" Leliana wonders as Britomart pulls her by the wrist through the outskirts of the forest, away from their current camp and up North towards the Waking Sea. "Are you sure we should be straying away from the others? We should have at least told them we were going out for a walk."

"Our camp in the Brecilian is close to Denerim, correct?" Britomart answers shortly, refusing to slacken her pace. "We'll be back before the others even realize we're gone, and if they want to wonder, let them wonder. Besides, they are occupied packing up for our journey to Orzammar, and they won't require our presence as long as we get our work done eventually."

"We are going to Denerim, then?"

"Yes. Since we're going all the way to Orzammar, it will be awhile before we come back in this direction, and when we do return, we will have completed all of our treaties and will be occupied in dealing with that worm Loghain. I thought you would appreciate it if we took this opportunity to take care of your own traitorous worm before everything else pushes it aside."

Leliana stops in her tracks suddenly, causing Britomart to jerk backwards and crash against her stomach. "Ouch!" she yelps, leaping away from her and covering her body protectively. "What was that for?"

"When you say that, you mean Marjolaine?" Leliana asks slowly, her eyes narrowing.

"Who else? You said that if we didn't take care of her soon, she would likely hire more assassins to deal with you, perhaps even that group Zevran used to be a part of. Though if Zevran's ambush of us was any indication, I suppose we shouldn't be too worried."

"But you don't understand," Leliana protests, her skin paling. "This is not something you and I can do alone. In Orlais, Marjolaine was one of the best there was at the Grand Game, which any number of talented warriors were a part of. She is lethal, and much more adept at the bardic arts than I could ever be. If we must face her, we should at least have some of the others to back us up. We should go back and get Alixire or Alain. Marjolaine's never had much experience dealing with mages, and Alain is strong enough to overpower anyone, even—"

"Shut up!" Britomart snaps, balling her fists at her side. "Don't you understand what Marjolaine is to you? Everyone has something, something that makes them weak and powerless and causes them to lose the strength they typically possess. That woman is a weakness to you, and weaknesses are personal, things that shouldn't be shared with just anyone. Alain and Alixire don't need to see that side of you. It should be fine if it's just me! No matter how difficult she is, if I can't help you with handling her, what good am I to you?"

"W-what?"

"You told me about Marjolaine for a reason. Like it or not, you chose me as the one to be here for this moment. If you don't want it to be just me, you should have put your trust in the others instead of making it solely my burden. You shouldn't have… you shouldn't have chosen just me if I am not enough to keep you safe."

Britomart turns away from Leliana sharply, ducking her face behind her curtain of black hair to hide her expression. Leliana remains silent for a moment before stepping forward to put her hand on Britomart's shoulder.

"Is that really how you feel?" she asks quietly, her fingers trembling gently against the dwarf's skin. "Is that really what you wish of me?"

"Don't ask me that during a time like this."

"How can I not? If you mean that, then…"

"Please. It's enough to have said it once. Let's just go."

She takes up Leliana's wrist again and begins pulling her forward.

"And just so you know," Britomart adds, clearing her throat, "I'm no lightweight myself. I may not be a bard, but I know a thing or two about killing powerful enemies. I don't know if I've told you this before, but I single handedly took down a carta lord back in Orzammar." She laughs softly, brushing away the slight moisture that had gathered in her eyes earlier. "Well, Leske was there, but he's as good as useless when there's more than one enemy to face. No one thought Beraht would fall, but I managed it. I don't know how your Marjolaine fights, but I'll manage it too, all right? Anyone can be taken down, especially if they have nothing real to fight for. Even Beraht. Even Marjolaine."

"Thank you for your faith, Britomart," Leliana sighs softly. "And you're right. I'm glad I chose you. Out of everyone, I am glad you're the one who is here."

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To Britomart, Marjolaine is a surprisingly unimpressive figure from what she had been expecting. As a former lover of Leliana's, she had been anticipating a beautiful and extravagant woman in a form fitting gown with towering hair interwoven with flowers, but Marjolaine is simplistically attired in a Ferelden dress, her black hair worn shoulder length and straight with an occasional braid pinned here and there. Her complexion is clearly her strongest virtue; her skin is an unblemished porcelain with two faint blooms of color on her cheeks. But in spite of the ordinariness of her appearance, there is something alluring about the bard master, a mysterious quality that make her motives difficult to pinpoint. She and Britomart are like opposing sides of a magnet; where Britomart repels people and keeps them at a safe distance, Marjolaine draws them closer, entrapping them in her web and devouring them tantalizingly. In some ways, Britomart can't fault Leliana for falling for it. If Marjolaine had been the queen of the Grand Game, someone as optimistic and inherently trusting as Leliana would not have been able to help being played.

"Leliana," Marjolaine coos in her thickly Orlesian voice as they walk into the main room, still bloodied from the battle with her guards. "How good it is to see you again! And you've brought a marvelously lovely friend to say hello with you. How very darling."

"Spare the pleasantries," Leliana interrupts, folding her arms across her chest. "I received your little greeting."

Marjolaine smiles darkly, and then waves her hands as if to brush Leliana's accusations off. "You must excuse the shabbiness of my little home, of course. I try to be a proper hostess, but this country gives me very little to work with. The smell of wet dog covers everything, and it spoils my little palace here, don't you think? Ah, if only we were back in Orlais!"

"You are more than welcome to go back," Britomart butts in, annoyed with the false cheer of Marjolaine's speech. She had once thought Lady Isolde was the epitome of a false, petulant woman, but her fellow Orlesian seems to be giving her a run for a money. Every word that comes from Marjolaine is like a pretty mask that covers her true intentions, sweet like a confection, but with a sour truth buried within.

"Go back?" Marjolaine chuckles, her eyes remaining fixed on Leliana. "There are charms here, no? Your dogs and undignified ways may plague me, but there are things worth staying for, I think."

"In other words, you are here to trouble Leliana, and kill her if possible?"

"So business-like, your companion," Marjolaine says with a devious wink. "Very beautiful, but blunt and rather hostile for someone so small. I feel like a sleek little lap dog is barking up at me."

Leliana grits her teeth. "I will not allow you to change the subject, Marjolaine. You betrayed me, and had me caught and tortured. I came to Ferelden to be free of you, but you have followed me even here. I know you were acting in the relationship we once shared and that I hold no real esteem in your heart, but tell me at least what I have done in my time here to make you wish me dead."

"Dead? I trained you, Leliana, and the skills I passed on to you would not be defeated by a handful of amateurish men. Besides, word has it you have a few strapping companions at your side who are well equipped to assist you when the need should arise. So, as you see, those men were simply a method of getting you to come to here to see me, and it did turn out rather splendidly since you are right in front of me in all your delightful glory."

"And here I thought you Orlesians left calling cards when you wanted a visit," Britomart snarls, her grip around her blades tightening. "And I suppose you are in Ferelden to have tea parties and masques with your old students? Do you have any other lies you would like to feed us, or are you finished?"

"You wish the truth, then?" Marjolaine smiles, her eyes at last settling firmly on Britomart. "Ah, if only it were so simple. I have been watching her, little dwarf, and as I have watched her, I have also watched you. You are irritable and harsh, but, ah, how dearly she looks upon you! And yet you deny what exists around you and hide from the things that define who you are. What does someone like you want with the truth? What uses do the willfully blind have for clarity? You act as if you wish to protect her from me, but perhaps you are the one she should stay away from, no?"

"I will not harm her," Britomart retorts, returning Marjolaine's unwavering gaze. "Don't assign your characteristics to me. I may not be all smiles and flattery like you, but I at least bear no ill will against her, and what I feel in regards to her, though it may not be a pretty show like your own affection, is as genuine as I am capable of. So I will ask you one more time: are you here in Ferelden to kill Leliana?"

"And why shouldn't I? She has knowledge she can use against me, and since that is so, I cannot let her be. Did you really think I would not watch my Leliana, my precious investment? I saw her in that little Chantry in Lothering and pondered over what her agenda was until I could think of nothing else. The quiet life, the peasant clothes, the chopped hair like a boy were not the Leliana I knew. She had to be planning something. But no letters were sent, and she never spoke to anyone. And then, one day, a band of dwarves, humans, and elves shows up in that poor excuse for a town, and whispers tell me that they are wanted criminals responsible for the death of Ferelden's own king! The dwarves find my Leliana, and she hurries after them, her bow returned to her back and her daggers freshly sharpened. What conclusion could I draw? She could not just be at the disposal of the Wardens, I thought. Leliana is too crafty to be so simple."

"And you think I left to find you?" Leliana cries, looking disgusted. "You think my involvement with them is some sort of addition to an elaborate revenge plot? You're insane!"

"You said you've been spying on us and having us followed," Britomart adds. "Has she ever done anything to warrant this paranoia? She spoke of you only grudgingly to me, and all her harping about the Maker has surpassed anything she's ever said about her life with you."

"Ah, and you believe her? My Leliana is an excellent actress, no? She and I are part of a game, and you are merely a pawn in it, dwarf. She is no pious little Chantry girl, and one day she will return to her true nature, and even you will not be safe."

"Don't underestimate me. I have seen who she truly is, both the cloistered sister and the fearsome bard of her past, and I know of what she is capable of and what she isn't. The Leliana she has become doesn't scheme or plot or betray her friends. But she will finish off the one who hounds her if you continue to threaten us for crimes we have not committed. And if she does not, then I will. I cannot stand someone who pretends to know people when all they've seen are shadows from a distance. You do not know Leliana anymore, and you don't know a sodding thing about me." She brandishes her daggers, licking her lips at the thought of the bloodshed to come. "Leliana is not you. And neither am I. We may enjoy a good hunt, but there's an essential difference."

"And what," Marjolaine asks, her cold eyes narrowing into a tight expression, "is that?"

"You play a game and are so lost in it that you've forgotten reality. You see threats where they don't exist and see your own betrayal in the hearts of others. Unfortunately for you, it's about time for you to wake up and meet some cold, hard reality. Leliana!"

The two women lift their blades, the steel brown with blood but unstained just enough to show their reflections, the image of two pairs of glinting eyes that leave nothing hidden or unsaid, and though brazenly unmasked and open, certain enough in their own strength not to be vulnerable to a Grand Game that has played itself out and has run out of masks to hide under in the face of an honest and at last united front.

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**Coming Up: **When Morrigan discovers the truth behind her mother's longevity, she asks her lover to do the impossible on her behalf. Will Hannon be able to slaughter the woman he admires most, or will adoration for her daughter reign supreme?


	48. Hannon: The Fall of Flemeth

**A/N: **Poor Hannon... fighting Flemeth was the last thing he had on his mind when he joined the Wardens, but fate takes you strange places! Will Morrigan provide him reason enough to confront his idol, or will he choose the mother over the daughter?

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**Forty-Eight. Hannon: The Fall of Flemeth.**

Every time Hannon glances over to where Morrigan has set up her camp and fire, she is attentively reading from the grimoire he'd filched for her from Alixire's First Enchanter back in the Circle Tower. He doesn't mind her inattention to him or her single minded focus on the dusty old tome— in fact, he thinks it's a bit precious given her usual disdain for being entertained by anything— but he is somewhat envious of the words she hordes for herself, the secrets of Asha'belannar he has so longed to catch a glimpse of himself. It had taken all the will power he'd had to give her the book without nosing through it first, and he'd hoped she would reward his perserverance by inviting him to join her during her nightly reading, but thus far she's been strangely silent and occasionally grim about the matter, telling Hannon that he really did ask too many questions for his own good.

Hannon can't help but wonder if Morrigan's reticence has something to do with Asha'belannar's intentions in sending her along with their group in the first place. He knows Asha'belannar hadn't been lying when she'd told them that she and her home in the Wilds were just as vulnerable as everything else to the Blight, but he suspects her of having ulterior motives in allowing Morrigan to accompany them. She is not an essential presence to them; the seven Grey Wardens are strong enough on their own, and out of their other companions, Morrigan has proven to be the least willing to extend her efforts to help anyone she regards as inconsequential. She has served more as a mocking voice to counter the inherent goodness of those such as Dulcia, Alistair, and Alixire, and though she is effective when she does choose to fight at their side, they would easily be able to survive without her help. Asha'belannar undoubtedly knew this would be case, so Hannon guesses she had another reason for forcing her daughter upon them, one that both mother and daughter have no intention of informing the Wardens of.

But unknown reasons have never set well with Hannon. The gods formed his mind to be inquisitive, and he can never rest until the truth is spelled out in front of him, until he knows everything there is to know about what interests him in life. Morrigan may be a Witch of the Wilds, but she is as mortal as anyone else, with her own set of defenses and vulnerabilities. Her thick skin disguises them well, but Hannon has complete faith that they are there, and that, as long as they exist, there exists a way to breach them and play to the gentler parts of her heart. She has already revealed her smaller weaknesses to him, and he hopes this means she will slowly allow him access to more and then more and more until he can finally understand her and fall in love completely, rather remaining at an arm's length, adoring the half-presented picture she is to him now.

When he sits down beside her at her fire, she stirs faintly, turning the grimoire at an angle so he cannot see in to it. Her expresson is pinched— more so than usual— and she does not even have to pretend to act unhappy to see him. She is unhappy, genuinely this time, and he isn't sure if he made the wrong choice in interrupting her or if the words she is reading are the source of her distress rather than being the pleasure she expected them to be.

After a few minutes of silence between them, she shuts the tome and sighs wearily to herself. "I take it that you wish to hear what I have read? How strange of you to not ask me directly yourself."

"Is it bad of me to wish to be conscientious after being scolded so often, lethallin?"

"No, but I do doubt that you are being conscientious. A fox like you may bide his time, but you always pounce on the prey eventually."

"But a wolf such as you never relinquishes anything easily."

Morrigan's lips tilt upwards slightly, but her expression still seems decidedly annoyed. "I will relinquish a little now, since what I have read may require some action on your part. This grimoire is not at all what I expected it to be. I had been anticipating a book of her spells and an outline of what power she commands, but this is not it."

"I take it what you have read is a little more distressing than all of that?"

"Distressing? That's one way of putting it. One may call Flemeth's detailed expression of her survival for all these years distressing indeed."

Hannon's eyes widen. "That is a question the elvhen have long dwelled on. There are theories, but no one can guess for certain. Perhaps she did what Keeper Zathrian did, and extended her life through a curse that she will not break?"

"I would almost rather your theory be correct. But no, that is not it. You have often asked me about my alleged sisters, the Witches of the Wilds, have you not? Everyone has heard legends about the number of daughters Flemeth has raised in her lifetime, and even I wondered why I had never seen any myself. But now I know. The Witches of the Wilds are all Flemeth. When her body becomes old, she raises a daughter such as myself, and when the time comes, she takes that daughter's body for her own."

Hannon turns this thought over in his mind for a moment. "I suppose that makes sense. After making a pact with a demon, she became an abomination, and abominations require a magically sufficient host body to survive. But all the same..." He shrugs his shoulders. "The thought of an abomination... your own mother... taking over your body is sickening, lethallin. I do not like this solution to my question."

"Nor do I. But tis the fact that I had no inkling of this whatsoever that upsets me more. Flemeth is capable of anything, and I was a fool for not suspecting her of using me for her own self-preservation. But she as well is a fool for keeping record of this ritual and giving me a chance to realize her lies for myself. Now there is only one response to this information: Flemeth needs to die."

Hannon pauses and studies Morrigan's face for signs that she is joking. "You are serious?" he asks, folding his arms across his chest. "You think such a force, a force more ancient than us mere saplings, will fall to a woman she herself trained?"

"And you think I will wait around like a sack waiting to be filled? If you do not wish this fate on me, I require your help to stop her in my stead."

"Me? My bow has some strength, but an ant cannot destory a mountain. At least tell me what you hope to achieve through this."

"What I wish is for you to take a group of your friends— the Wardens, preferably, since even my mother was willing to admit to your collective powers— and return to the Kocari Wilds to confront her directly. I do not think she can be killed easily, and even if you slay her, I am sure she has some trick to keep herself alive, but I at least would appreciate the time to prepare myself against her. To do this, I will need her true grimoire, which you must deliver to me as soon as you can. You may see yourself as an ant beside her, but she is no immortal. She bleeds just as anyone else does, and she is capable of death. I would not ask you if I did not trust you, so do not dimiss me and my resolve in this matter. Unless you act, I will never be safe from her. You may respect her more than you do me, but if you have any consideration for what I have given you over these past months, you will not turn me down without a thought to what she means to do to me signifies."

Hannon closes his eyes and presses his hands against his forehead._ Yes, lethallin, you have given me much, and denied me much as well_, he thinks to himself. _But is it worth the life of a woman who carries with her so much lore and history that to erase it would be the loss of Arlathan all over again? Is my love really equal to who she is and what she has done. Is one silly emotion of mine_— _one you cannot even bring yourself to return_— _important enough to put an arrow in the heart of one who is bigger than me in every respect?_

Suddenly, the words he had once said to the Guardian come upon him, his past voice sharp and clear as if to scold him for forgetting the wisdom he had once imparted to others as inconsequential to himself. _Everyone has things they want that are purely selfish, _he recalls. _For the world to progress, those paths must be taken just as often as the ones that lead to new paths for others. It doesn't matter about Asha'belannar. I have to do as I want. I am alive to make choices for myself, not to have the rest of the world make them for me_. He presses his hand beneath his inkless eye and closes the other, the one wrapped prettily in his ceremonial tattoo. _Selfish or not, I think the Keeper will understand. I started this game to begin with, and I will see it through to its end._

0o0o0o0o

"This is ridiculous," Britomart moans as they trudge through the swampy and blighted Wilds once again. Her armor is thicker this time around, but her aversion to the cold has not yet abated. "You are honestly expecting us to defeat the humans' most powerful mage without even telling us why?"

"I thought you would be happy to test your strength, Da'mi."

"I have to agree with her," Alixire interjects. "I am all for exterminating abominations, but the magic I sensed from Flemeth was a hundred times beyond my own power. Surely we shouldn't undertake this ourselves without provocation."

"I am determined to do this, lethallin. Any of you may turn back as you wish, but I have chosen for myself. This must be done."

"I... I will trust you, then. You stood by me in the Tower, and have willing defended each of us at one time or another. We will repay our debt of honor, won't we?"

The others nod, continuing their journey silently and without further complaint, even though they must dearly wish to be with their companions, who are plowing forward towards Orzammar as the Wardens march through pools of muck to find the heart of the Wilds.

Hannon's memory and sense of direction are still adept, although he no longer has the voices of the wilderness to rely on now that they have been silenced by the darkspawn. It is enough to follow the presence of the magic that still lingers over everything else, faded beneath the stench of corruption but still undeniably strong. He remembers how excited he had been the first time he had been here, and how awed he had been in Asha'belannar's sight. He knows that he must do this act for his own future contentment, but all the same, he wonders if he will be able to forgive himself after it is completed after all.

Flemeth is waiting— Hannon cannot shake the feeling that she is knowingly anticipating their arrival— outside of her hut when his tracking at last leads them to the place where they had originally set out on their quest. Her expression, once again, is amused but secretive, as if her private joke is one only she can enjoy, one that it would take a lifetime or two to fully appreciate.

"So my precious admirer has returned," Flemeth laughs. Her hut is untouched, but she herself looks a bit older than before. Hannon wonders if the time for her ritual is nearing and if she will be able to survive for much longer without it. "By all accounts, I was expecting you sooner. Surely your last inquisition was not enough to satisfy you."

"Of course not, Asha'belannar. But I have come for different reasons."

"Have you? Perhaps because Morrigan has at last found someone to dance to her tune? Such enchanting music she plays."

"I am here on my own accord. There is something I must say to you."

"Speak it, then. I am nothing if not hospitable."

"If it true you wish to use your daughter to continue your lifespan, I'm afraid I cannot let you do it. I have no desire to harm you, but if you will harm her, my hand will be forced."

Flemeth laughs again. "How charming! The boy she has wrapped around her finger is quite in love with her. You do know I have taught her not to trifle herself with such matters, I trust?"

"Yes, and yet I am here."

"And yet you are. So let us get down to the ending. Will you slay the old wretch as Morrigan bids, or does this tale take a different turn?"

"Hannon," Alixire whispers under her breath, "Is what you accused her of true?"

"Speak up, girl!" Flemeth barks. "If you wish to know something of Flemeth, ask her yourself!"

"Is it true?" she repeats levelly, unafraid.

"As a mage, you should know yourself what is feasible and what is not. Do you think me capable of it?"

"Yes, I do. I have seen first hand what abominations are capable of."

"Then if the possibility exists, you may very well believe it can unfold. But I cannot instruct what you believe. Will Morrigan have her way, or will Flemeth? That should be your concern."

Alixire turns back to Hannon. "If your will is still set, I agree with you. She must be stopped. But you must be certain this is what you want, or we'll never win."

"I will not be able to defeat you, Asha'belannar," Hannon says to Flemeth, not even bothering to phrase this concern as a question. "You will continue on in spite of my efforts."

"That is indeed a possibility to be wary of."

"I am not wary of it. In fact, I would not wish to destroy you forever. You may be an aboimination, but I have no doubt you are capable of good. Our survival is evidence of that." He pulls his bow from his back and steadies it in his hands. "But I will not allow you to take emma lath, my love, from me. I will not forgive myself if I permit you to erase her."

"But you will let me erase someone else, then? What if that body, too, is loved? What about all the others before Morrigan... do you think that they had no one who looked upon them with desire?"

"Then the ones who love them must fight on their behalf, just as I do. It may be futile, but that does not mean we should not try. Even if it means that you will one day be gone."

Flemeth throws her head back and laughs. "I should have known. The moment you stepped into the Wilds, you were perfectly suited to be won over by her. But this is a dance old Flemeth knows well. Let's see if she remembers the steps."

"Yes, and I will keep up with you as best as I can."

He slides an arrow into his bow and watches as her form shifts, towering over him and spitting fire across the landscape of the Wilds. _How did I end up here, Tamlen? _he wonders faintly. _The very person I entered into this war for is now on the other side of my weapon, and my heart has been taken by a shemlen_— _the very heart I thought was too removed for such nonsense! Such a winding path... but I will take it. This is my choice to make, and even if it is wrong, even if it is selfish and unprofitable, I will live with what I have chosen and abide by the possibilities I believed in most._

0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up:** Arlindria returns from exile and faces Orzammar once again to find the brother she has sworn to defeat involved in political intrigue ripe with opportunities for revenge.


	49. Arlindria: Out of Exile

**A/N: **Sorry for the looong time gap there, I forgot to mention in the last chapter that I was heading into finals, moving out of my apartment, and interviewing for internships week. This upcoming week will also be a bit hectic since my brother is getting married, so my posting may be at odd intervals (or they could be back to normal since I'm on break, it all kind of depends on how the internship thing works out). In case you've forgotten, we're on our way to Orzammar to finish the treaties and send both Arlindria and Britomart in the direction of their eventual conclusions. Please enjoy!

0o0o0o0o

**Forty-Nine. Arlindria: Out of Exile.**

It has been months since Arlindria has last set foot in Orzammar, but she remembers every little thing she left behind as if it had been just minutes since she crossed over to the surface with Britomart and Duncan. The sights, the smells, the very feel of the stone beneath her feet flood over her, and she is filled with the sensation of being enveloped by familiar arms, of reuniting with an old and treasured friend. She had once learned her kingdom as thoroughly as she would know a lover, paying attention to its every nook and cranny, its strengths and weaknesses, its blemishes and marks of beauty. And now that she is returning after so long and painful an absence, she finds herself hungry to relearn all that she once knew and find more besides, the hidden undersides that her former explorations missed due to the blindness of her affection.

As she gazes over the rough-hewn stone tributes to the Paragons, her own ancestor catching her eyes first as if he is leading her welcome himself, one of the guards clears his throat and glares up at her.

"So you're back, exiles," he says with a degree of coolness she never would have tolerated back in the days when she was an official princess of the kingdom. "Can't say we're happy to see you. If you ask me, Orzammar is better off without a duster and a kinslayer causing us further grief."

"But no one did ask you, did they?" Britomart snarls, crossing her arms. "And you would do well not to scorn the Wardens, no matter what you think of us. King Endrin has always practiced courtesy to them, and I doubt he would approve of your rudeness, especially towards his daughter. Even if she is an exile, she is still a thousand times your better."

"Peace, Britomart," Arlindria says softly. "I am no daughter to the king in their eyes anymore."

"In more ways than you know," the guard says, bowing his head. "The king is dead."

Arlindria freezes, the blood draining from her face. "Dead," she repeats, disbelieving.

"Dead. After... after what happened with you and your brothers, it seemed as if he gave up his will to live. Lord Harrowmont looked after him, but it was not long after you left that he returned to the stone." The guard lowers his voice. "There are rumors, of course. They say it was more you he was grieving rather than Trian. Lord Harrowmont is telling everyone that King Endrin suspected Bhelen of arranging a set up, but of course _he _would say that."

"He did say he would speak in my defense," Arlindria muses. "He knew better than anyone that I had no real reason to kill Trian. I was earnest about becoming queen, but I could have done so on my own merit without having to raise a finger against my brothers. Surely the people of Orzammar are not blind to this."

"There is reason enough for rumors and whispers, but we know better than to take the word of a man fighting for the throne with Bhelen as stone truth. It is in Harrowmont's advantage to lie just as much as it is in Bhelen's."

"So my brother is still after the throne, but no vote has been reached yet in the Assembly."

Arlindria purses her lips. It had been quite some time since the Assembly had been deadlocked, and ever since the Aeducans have been on the throne, it has always been assumed they would hold onto it until they ran out of viable heirs. That Harrowmont had managed to keep Bhelen from winning over the Assembly with ease spoke well of his chances of keeping a murderer off the dead king's throne, but Arlindria cannot help but admit to herself that she is less than thrilled that Harrowmont followed through with his promise to make Bhelen's treachery known by pursuing the throne himself. She has utmost respect for him and his family, but there is something bitter in passing on the throne to someone outside of her family, someone whose name is insignificant compared to hers. She had worked so hard to refine her politics, which were progressive enough to satisfy the young and establish Orzammar more in the world of trade and industry, but also with enough traditional principles to keep their culture stable and rooted in the virtues that dwarves hold dearest. Putting Bhelen on the throne would shatter their national identity while making them more financially strong, but putting Harrowmont on the throne would get them nowhere but where they had always been.

"This sounds like another issue we'll have to address," Britomart groans, her hands toying self-consciously around the patches of skin inked with her Brand. "No king means no army, and we don't have time to fool around here. Let's just give this Harrowmont person the crown, serve up justice to your brother, and get back to Arl Eamon so we can get our battle underway."

"What's the rush, Da'mi?" Hannon asks drily. "Do you have an urgent appointment that all of this is getting in the way of?"

"No, I'm just looking forward to the day when I can say goodbye to you and your unending stream of sleaziness, that's all."

"You wound me, Da''mi."

Leliana elbows him in the ribs and lowers her voice, "Hannon, please stop pestering her. You remember that her mother and sister both live here, and she has a very complicated relationship with both of them."

Britomart's shoulders tense, but she pretends not to hear Leliana. Hannon shrugs and drops the matter without saying anything further.

"Lord Harrowmont and Prince Bhelen are in the Commons at the moment, word has it," the guard speaks up, his expression half-way between amused and annoyed at the tenor of their conversation. "If you need to speak to them to settle your Warden issues, I'm sure they would enjoy the chance to have you on their side. Though I would ask you, _Warden Aeducan_, that you not forget the good of Orzammar in your attempt to exact whatever justice you feel yourself entitled to."

"I love Orzammar more than I love myself. I never thought to do otherwise."

"And you, duster," the guard mutters, turning his face to Britomart with a look of faintly masked terror. "Many of us are grateful for what you did to Beraht, but keep that temper of yours in check. You may be a Warden, but no one will excuse a single misstep by you until you prove yourself worthy of that title."

"There's only one person here who needs to know my worth or lack of it. Don't expect me to cater to any of you just because you can't see past the Brand on my cheek."

Britomart takes Arlindria's hand and tugs her forward, her mouth twisted into a grim line. Arlindria follows behind as they make their way through the Hall of Heroes, her spirits undeniably happy to be among the beloved and familiar things she had never intended to be a part from, but at the same time more low and broken than she'd even been when she'd found out the truth about Gorim. Though she is back in Orzammar, she is only at the threshold of her home. Her father cannot open the door, nor can Trian, and Bhelen is too smart to let a predator into his crooked nest after all his conscience is guilty of. And the beloved dream she always had in mind, the throne and all that it entails for herself and her people, is locked away in a far room she will never reach, even if she redeems herself, even if she pays for Trian and her father's life in Bhelen's blood. Her name is gone, and her former life purged from the memories. Even if she is exonerated, she will have to start anew, and be reborn as what she has become, not as a princess but a Warden. The point of no return had already been passed, and she cannot, especially not at this tenuous time, make any claims to the throne that would be considered valid. It is out of her hands, and all she can do now is place it into someone else's, parceling her dream off to someone who had not lived, breathed, and bled it to the exclusion of all else.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

By time they reach the Commons, it is already too late to address either Bhelen or Harrowmont. Their less than amicable 'discussion' ends in bloodshed, and both of the lords and their followers hurry back off to the Diamond Quarter where they can be safe and pampered for by their House while others resolve their issues for them. Bhelen's eyes pass over their group for a brief moment, but Arlindria does not think he sees her. His eyes are pulled upwards towards the taller figures of Sten, Dulcia, and Alistair, and although a look of confusion passes over his face at the sight of foreigners in the closed off kingdom, he does not seem to give it another thought as he makes his retreat.

"So that was your brother," Dulcia muses as Arlindria gazes coldly at Bhelen's back. "I envy you, Arlindria. You at last have your target in your sights."

"Close, but yet so far," Arlindria sighs. "Well, I don't suppose he'll let us pay a special visit to him, but we can at least go see Lord Harrowmont. If he is to be king, and if I am to keep my revenge from causing trouble here, I should at least start grooming him to be a bit more capable than what he currently is. For someone who spent nearly his whole life in the service of my father, I've always felt that he lacks the firmness of will to follow in his footsteps." She pauses, glancing back over at Britomart. "Should we pay a visit to Dust Town first?"

"Dust Town," Britomart says blandly. "No, no, I doubt Rica will still be there."

"Ah, yes. I forgot. She would also be in House Aeducan, same as my brother."

Britomart's eyes narrow. "House Aeducan. Same as your brother. Are you trying to tell me that...?"

Before Arlindria can answer, a sweet and melodious voice calls out, "Britomart! Britomart, is that you?" from beside the threshold of Tapster's Tavern. A tiny and pretty young dwarf strides forward, her hands waving frantically towards Britomart as she calls her name.

Arlindria studies the young woman, a pleasantly plump beauty with two coils of red hair bound to the sides of her head. Arlindria is uncomfortably familiar with this girl's face from the numerous occasions they ran into each other when Rica came and went from Bhelen's chambers, but she had forgotten until now that Rica is not only Bhelen's concubine, but Britomart's sister as well. It's an easy thing to forget; they look absolutely nothing alike, and their personalities are as different as night and day. Arlindria remembers Rica as polite, obliging, and sharp, but otherwise not nearly as remarkable as her fearsome sister, though she is, in many ways, easier to approach and speak with. Arlindria is not particularly fond of her on the principle of her being Bhelen's closest attachment during the time of her exile and Trian's death, but sometimes when she hears Britomart speaking of her, she can sense the love buried underneath all the layers of resentment and cannot help but appreciate Rica for at least attempting to make sense of the mess that life had turned Britomart into.

"Rica," Britomart says levelly, her face betraying no sign of surprise or pleasure at seeing her sister again. "Nice dress."

Rica's hands smooth over the ornate fabric, toying with the jeweled broach pinned at the neckline. "It doesn't feel right," she says. "This life... it just doesn't feel right when I imagine what you must be going through on the surface. It doesn't feel right that you never had a taste of any sort of safe and comfortable life before you left."

"Ha! Do you really think I'd look good in that ridiculous thing?" A smile at last creeps up on Britomart's face. "I told you, Rica. If I end up in silk dresses, I'll do it my own way and I'll do it with honor. Unlike someone else I know."

To Arlindria's surprise, Rica also grins and throws her arms around her sister at this remark. "I missed you," she sniffles into Britomart's collarbone. "No one else is honest like you. It's been so difficult without you here."

"Difficult? As if sitting on your ass in the Diamond Quarter is difficult, unless your patron is a monster in bed. Who is it, anyways? One of Lady Aeducan's cousins? Piotin?"

Rica turns her head, for the first time realizing Arlindria's presence. Her cheeks flush, and she drops into an automatic curtsey before thinking the better of it and returning to her feet. "I... I have nothing to say to the killer of my husband's brother," she says, looking horrified at her audacity in saying such a thing to a person she had once shown complete deference to.

"Wait, Rica, she's not— " Britomart stops abruptly, her frown returning. "Wait, are you saying you whored yourself out to _Prince Behlen_? Oh, shit. This is not good."

"What do you mean 'not good'?" Rica demands. "Mother is out of Dust Town, and we're living in the Royal Palace. I couldn't have done better for her."

"But you have heard the rumors about Prince Trian's death, haven't you?"

"Bhelen's told me many times before. Lady Aeducan did it. It wasn't a set up, and he wasn't responsible." Her grip around Britomart tightens. "I have to believe that. If it isn't true, my life is ruined. The life of your nephew Endrin is ruined."

Arlindria spits on the ground. "How dare you name your son after the man Bhelen's actions killed?"

"The one who killed him was you!"

"I loved my father, and I had nothing to gain from Trian's death that I didn't already have. Believe what you will, but I will not allow him on the throne with the blood of my brother on his hands."

"But you would allow me and my child to suffer from crimes you very may well have committed yourself? Britomart, please tell me you don't mean to go through with this. I'll take you to Bhelen, and we can sort this out. You can meet your nephew and speak to mother again. Don't make my boy the son of a kinslayer when Lady Aeducan has already taken it upon herself."

"Bhelen does seem to be the better option," Zevran points out. "That Harrowmont ran like a cat with his tail between his legs at the first sign of danger, but your brother stood firm."

"But as Wardens, we should not award treachery for the sake of ambitious greed," Dulcia disputes. "If we did, we would put Loghain on the throne and have done with our part in Ferelden's Civil War. If we did, I may as well spit on my parents' grave."

"The little dwarf swore to her countryman that she wouldn't forget what was politically best for her kingdom," Morrigan says drily. "But of course, everyone goes back on their word from time to time."

"I haven't. I won't. But I cannot stand passively and allow injustice to escape Orzammar's notice." Arlindria brandishes the shield on her back, proudly displaying the embellished A. "Two men lie dead because of what he has done. There can be no forgiveness. I do not believe in your Maker or the code of virtue that goes along with him, but I believe the dead should rest peacefully and that all sins should be atoned for. He will not pay for them in his palace enjoying pleasures bought by his brother's blood. He will only pay for it when it is snatched away from him as it was snatched from us, and if that means I have to put Harrowmont on the throne and pull his strings myself, I will do it. If I must operate in the shadows of this place, I will do it until the day I die to assure that I have not done Orzammar wrong by relieving it of my brother and his evil influence."

"But my son, and my family," Rica protests, her face red and flushed with emotion. "Even if you don't care about me, how can you do this to Britomart?"

"Enough, Rica," Britomart says softly. "Arlindria will not leave us helpless. Harrowmont must be desperate for our support, and I'm sure he won't be above a few bribes. If Bhelen is exiled and removed from the memories, Harrowmont will take care of your son until the day I deliver honor upon our family, or else we will promise to make sure he never becomes king of Orzammar. But please, Rica. I heard Lady Aeducan's testimony and have come to think of her as the person most important to me save only one, and there has never been a moment when I have doubted her innocence."

"But she has every reason to lie!" Rica says, with less conviction than before.

"You know me, Rica. When have I ever believed in anyone this much? I don't give my faith lightly, and I don't support anyone who hasn't earned my trust. Bhelen killed his brother. That is the simple truth. Bhelen killed Trian, and I don't want that kind of man having anything to do with your son."

"I see." Rica leans her head against Britomart's shoulder and closes her eyes. "You really have grown, little sister."

"A little."

"And Lady Aeducan is responsible?"

"Partly." Britomart's eyes stray to Leliana for a moment. "The way I see it is that all of us are missing something and are looking for it everywhere we go. I don't think the answer for either of us is here, but this is a step closer to the finish. Especially for her. She's never held me back, and I won't let her stop now either. So please... let us follow through with this. I swear I won't abandon you ever again, Rica. You or mother or your son."

"I'll make this right, I swear it," Arlindria says, clutching her shield close to her heart. "It was my mistake to begin with. I let this happen. Now it's time for me to pick up the pieces I left behind and make this kingdom the place it should be, even if my father cannot be here to see."

0o0o0o0o0

**Coming Up: **Britomart mends fences with Rica, but has less luck with her former Carta cronies. Will the one she stood up and fought up for in the past also stand up in support of her?


	50. Britomart: Bitter Reunions

**A/N: **Yay, so I ended up getting the internship, but it doesn't start until June. Hopefully I can take advantage of my one month off of both work AND school to make some progress towards the conclusion. As for now, we still have this plus one more Orzammar chapter left before we reach Denerim and the final onslaught. Please enjoy!

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**Fifty. Britomart: Bitter Reunions.**

Britomart can feel everyone's eyes upon her as she finds a table for her sister at Tapster's Tavern away from the drunken masses and potential eavesdroppers. She doesn't think it's her brand that's attracting the excessive attention, as is usually the case. Her hair has always masked both tattoos when necessary, and her lack of proper trimming and attention to her looks on the road has at the very least veiled the mark on her cheek from the eyes of casual observers. Besides, as Rica's sister and a new-found member of both a noble order and a noble house it is now acceptable for her to be in Tapster's even with her brand and history as a criminal serving as deterrents. She is House Aeducan now. She is a part of the most favored House in Orzammar, stumbling upon the honor with the grace of an interloper, stealing the nobility that Arlindria had undeservedly lost.

But Britomart suspects that the stares are because of who she now is, not due to who she once was. The dirty rumors surrounding her, the stigma she had brought upon herself by defiling the honor of the Proving, have all vanished during her absence, and her identity as a duster has been replaced with that of 'Grey Warden'. There is no blatant malice in their stares, but only admiration intermingled with a touch of fear and awe. Once, before she left Orzammar in the first place, Britomart would have been pleased to be respected and recognized for her talents by anyone of importance, but now a pang of dissatisfaction lodges firmly in her heart. These people who had hated her so fiercely had changed their minds with little provocation, without her having to do a single thing but become a Grey Warden to impress them. She had wanted to be the instrument that altered their ideas of her, she had wanted to have them realize her heart was not the twisted thing they had made it out to be, but they had taken it upon themselves to unreasonably absolve her former transgressions and erase over Britomart with an idealistic image of a hero, a selfless vanquisher of darkspawn cleansed of her sin.

"How was it for you, out there?" Rica asks after the bartender has fetched them drinks. "King Endrin died not long after Lady Aeducan left, so Orzammar has been shut down for some time. We haven't had much word from the surface."

Britomart turns away from the watching eyes and tries to put her discontent to the back of her mind. "Ostagar was a failure," she answers wearily. "The king was betrayed— much like Arlindria was— and we've been scrambling ever since to form an army to eliminate the threat. That's why we're here to begin with."

"I was hoping it would be a happier time for you. Challenging, but happy."

"I never said it wasn't happy." Britomart sighs and takes a sip of her drink, wrinkling her nose as she recalls all the reasons she had grown to prefer Ferelden beer during her time on the surface. "I'm not one to indulge in happiness, but there have been moments. It's been enlightening, to say the least."

"Enlightening?"

"I'm learning that perhaps you were right."

Rica's mouth falls open. "You're admitting _that_ of all things? Are you sure you're well?"

"Don't get too full of it, Rica. Even you are allowed to be right from time to time." She pauses, the corner of her lips twitching into a short smile. "Before I left, you said I should become a person who can be proud of myself. Maybe I'm not all the way there yet, but I am at least trying now. It's just gotten so exhausting for me. Loving people more than I can love myself. Always needing affirmation from someone else rather than relying on my own self perception. If I'm truly going to be happy... if I'm ever going to learn to love someone and be loved properly, I have to start realizing the things about myself that I love and finding out on my own what needs to be changed. Even more than the darkspawn, that's the real challenge I have been enduring over these past few months."

Rica takes Britomart's hand an squeezes it. "You have my full support, you know. You've always had it. I know I've always made your life harder rather than easier, but I do love you very much."

"I love you, too, I suppose. In my own way."

"And I suppose that is as much of a concession as I'll get out of you." Rica taps her fingers against her cheek thoughtfully. "So... I wonder who it was that brought this realization out of you. You said Lady Aeducan was your most important person save one, and my theory is that the red head with the bow looked at you very affectionately. She is a human, though. Mother will not be pleased."

"When have I ever cared about pleasing Mother?" Britomart shakes her head disdainfully. "By the way, what's going on with the Carta? I'm guessing Jarvia's taken over after my little bloodbath with Beraht."

"Changing the subject, sister? Yes, she's taken over the time being. She's proving to be even more troublesome than Beraht, and she still hasn't forgiven our family for what happened to her lover. If you plan to stay here long, it's inevitable that she will make a move against you."

"And since the others are pledging their support for Harrowmont as we speak, it won't be long before word of my presence here gets out."

"Add that to the fact that both Harrowmont and my husband have been looking into having her disposed of. If Harrowmont wants to milk your support, he'll surely ask for you to step in for him. Especially since he'll be aware of your connections to the Carta. Your defeat of Beraht has become a rather famous tale around Orzammar, even in the Diamond Quarter."

"Wonderful. I escape the Carta only to end up coming back. I always knew this would happen."

"What, you're not worried about Jarvia, are you? For someone who disposed of an entire branch of the Carta in a homicidal fury, she shouldn't be too much of a concern."

Britomart shakes her head. "No. It isn't Jarvia. It's some of the other rats that might turn up in that nest. If you remember, I didn't exactly leave on a positive note. I wasn't kind, even to my own friends."

"You're thinking of Leske?"

"He wasn't a very good friend, most of the time," Britomart muses. "But then again, neither was I."

"He did like you, though. Even if he has remained in the Carta, surely he will be willing to listen to you if you wish to apologize or explain yourself."

"Oh, Rica. If there's one thing I've learned since leaving Orzammar it's that you only have so many chances to make things right before there's no going back and changing things. If you don't take them at the right time, they don't come back. I had a lifetime of chances with Leske, and everything that's happened might end up being too little too late."

"And you're fine with that?"

"No." Britomart's hands clench around her mug, trembling just perceptibly. "But I made my choices. If I have to live with them now, then so be it."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It is chilling for Britomart to walk through the Carta's caves in the exact same fashion that she once had with Leske when hunting down Beraht. So little has changed within the caves themselves, but Britomart feels so separate from the embittered girl who had stalked these passages dreaming feverishly of bloodshed that she begins to wonder if the event happened in another lifetime, to someone else. Nothing feels the same anymore. She wants Jarvia dead for the merciless cruelty of the Carta towards the very people they are supposed to protect, but her desire is tame and her rage, for once, is controlled. She feels instead a pressing sadness weighing down upon her that others will die alongside Jarvia, possibly Leske, possibly even the same people she grew up with. Even though they had participated in her abuse, she would now never have a chance to teach them to be otherwise. She would kill them for their choices, just as surely as they would have killed her for hers.

Before they reach the main cavern, she feels two different hands pressing down on her shoulders, one on the either side. Arlindria is to her left, smiling softly as she says, "We're sisters now, and even without this bond between us, I will always have your back," and Leliana is to the right, and though she says nothing out loud, the fact that she is still there after all Britomart has put her through says enough. _It's okay, _Britomart thinks to herself. _I still don't have the words to say to you either. Until I can be at peace with everything I've done here, I can't promise you anything. But that doesn't mean I won't one day. That doesn't mean I'm not happy you're here._

Jarvia and Leske are waiting for her, just as she expected. Like Britomart herself, Jarvia has changed since their last meeting. She has always been cruel and decisive, but never before has Britomart seen eyes so cold and unfeeling as hers, as if by killing her lover, Britomart had killed whatever small sense of humanity Jarvia had once possessed.

"Come to finish the job?" Jarvia asks without preamble. Her blades are already withdrawn, and she seems mere seconds away from pouncing, held back only by Leske's hand on her shoulder.

"Leske," Britomart sighs. "I didn't want you to be here. But I suppose it was inevitable."

"What was I supposed to do?" he says with a mild shrug. "You left, and I didn't have anywhere else to go. I have to eat, and not everyone has been given your opportunities."

"I understand. But that you have to be here, at this time... I don't want you to die."

"Back at you, Warden. It'll put a tear on your sister's pretty face. And it'll mean more darkspawn will live without you there to kill them. But I have no reason to side with you. If you destroy the Carta again, what then? A new one will keep springing up in its place. I'll live the same life over and over again even if you do spare me."

"But it's better to live, isn't it? As long as you live, there's a chance things will change. Orzammar doesn't have to stay the way it always has. There are people like Arlindria— Lady Aeducan— who care for us more than we realize. It may not be immediate, but things will begin to shift here. If you die, you'll never see it. You'll have spent your life living for something that helped you survive but never gave you anything more."

"It really is too bad, Warden. I've seen what you can do. You're sodding insane on your own, and now you've got yourself an entourage of thugs on your side. I don't really like my chances here, but now's as good a time as any to go. That's how us dusters live."

"I'm sorry, in that case."

Leske snorts. "Hey, what's with you? Where's the rough skinned bitch who gets her kicks by browbeating and throwing around verbal barbs?"

"We're about to try and kill each other. I thought it would be nice to be civil before it's all over."

"And that isn't really who she is," Leliana adds, stepping up so she is standing at Britomart's side. "It's only a part. If you would just listen— "

Britomart lifts up her hand. "No, Leliana. We're firmly set in our own ways, just like you and Marjolaine. And there's only one way this can end."

She lifts up her dagger and twirls it in her fingers before she is able to brandish it firmly. It's already tasted so much blood that the stains have become indistinguishable. She remembers drawing it across Beraht's throats and plunging it into Marjolaine's heart, and how unrepentant she had been to see the scarlet liquid streaming down it as it imparted its message of death. The blood spilled this time would matter to her, but it wouldn't make a difference. Blood would spill in any case, and she would continue to defend the first precious things she's ever come to love with any sort of degree of stability, herself — for the first time ever in her mind— included.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **After facing the Deep Roads while searching for Paragons, the election reaches a bloody conclusion when Arlindria and Bhelen at last reunite.


	51. Arlindria: True Kinslayer

**A/N: **Wedding time is over, and boy am I EXHAUSTED! Dancing for five hours straight has made me a bit incapable of normal movement for the time being, so while I recover, here is another chapter to conclude the Orzammar treaty. After this, our Wardens will be tying up loose ends and preparing to launch their final assault against their enemies in the capital, both human and darkspawn. Stay tuned and enjoy!_  
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0o0o0o0o0o

**Fifty-One. Arlindria: True Kinslayer.**

_There were happier times once. She sees them sometimes when she dreams, reliving those moments when her mother was still alive, and Trian and her father, too. Her mother, her face a hazy and distant memory, smiles down at them as they gather around Endrin's knee, their small bodies thin and scrappy and riddled with bruises from the pretend Provings they play at in the palace to determine which one of them is the better warrior. Trian pushes Arlindria out of the way when she comes too close, his demeanor ever stern and uncompromising. "You're not the eldest, know your place," he says, and Arlindria sticks out her tongue at him and remains exactly where she is. Bhelen is still a toddler, and he clings to the fabric of Arlindria's skirt, having not yet learned to hate her or see her as a threat of any sort._

_ "My children," Endrin says affectionately, buffing Trian on the chin and stroking Arlindria's mane of blonde hair. Arlindria lifts up Bhelen so Endrin can reach him and bestow a few gentle pinches to his cheeks. "Do you know what today is?"_

_ "The anniversary of your coronation as king," Trian and Arlindria recite dutifully. Bhelen simply nods along, since he is too young to master such words as 'coronation,' even though he is old enough to comprehend its meaning._

_ "Correct. I still remember that day so vividly, as if it were only yesterday. Would you like to hear the story, my children?"_

_ "Yes, father, please," Arlindria says earnestly. With a smile, Endrin sweeps her up and plants her firmly on his lap, which makes both Bhelen and Trian pout for a moment before he begins to speak._

_ "As you know, I was the second child of your grandfather, King Ansgar Aeducan, and was not groomed to take over the throne of Orzammar," Endrin begins as his three children lean forward intently, though they have each heard this story more times than they can count. "Our elections make it so that any noble can be elected king, regardless of House or birth order, but it was always assumed my elder brother would be the one on the throne, and that I would serve as his chief courtier as well as his military captain. Now, the humans have a saying that it is a foolish thing to put all your goods in one basket, and this is something our family had to learn the hard way. In fact, that it is why I have seen to it that each of you are prepared to be excellent leaders, because no one can be certain who among you three will be chosen when I am gone."_

_ "All because Uncle, the chosen heir, died before Grandfather," Trian whispers solemnly. "No one thinks that the heir will die, but Uncle passed away in an accident at the Proving."_

_ "That he did, my boy. It was a great blow to all of us. Not only did I mourn the passing of a beloved brother, but I found myself the only candidate to a throne my father was slowly losing his will to hold as well. After my brother died, my father followed only years after. I had schooled myself to become the king, but in truth, I was frightened. Lords of other Houses saw my lack of a proper royal education as a weakness, and they dreamed of at last finding an opening to take the throne away from House Aeducan. I feared with all my heart that the Assembly would lose faith in me, and that I would be the one to weaken the House which had been made strong by Paragon Aeducan and had been held aloft by the shoulders of my ancestors."_

_ "But even with the best of Orzammar's deshyrs nipping at your heels, you still prevailed," Arlindria concludes, nuzzling into her father's chest._

_ "Naturally, my dear daughter. What is truly strong will not be destroyed by the plots and schemes of others. We all have our moments when we are weak and believe our world has turned against us, but a strong man or women rises from their blackest hour and lives to fight again. The rival deshyrs may have thought they could take advantage of my shock and sudden shift from one way of life to another after the deaths of my brother and father, but that I had suffered and lived through these changes made me still their better. The Assembly recognized this in me, and there was little deliberation in their vote. I was made King of Orzammar, and Aeducan remained first among the Houses."_

_ "They put a crown on you!" Bhelen cries, pointing to the ornate helm Endrin had on display whenever he wasn't required to wear it for ceremony._

_ "Yes," Endrin says, his voice growing somewhat distant. He runs his fingers through Arlindria's hair in a steady rhythm, and though the motion is mindless, Arlindria curls into it like an affectionate kitten. "I remember very clearly how it felt. It was such a weight, but still very much a glorious burden. To be shouldered with Orzammar, to be given its joy and pain, its triumphs and trials... that it is not something you earn simply by having the name Aeducan or being born first, second, or last. It is who you are; it is in your very blood. It is the mark bestowed upon the person who has united both the strong and enduring dream to be the head of this glorious kingdom and the heart to carry through with it and love the kingdom with a pure and unselfish love. I have three very special and darling children, but I think only one of you will be able to join the strength of your dream with the strength of your heart. Such power is a rarity. It may seem simple to you now, but to give yourself purely and completely is no small task that just anyone can perform. It is the mark of kings and queens, and when practiced in its best form, the mark of Paragons."_

_ He muses for a moment longer before a smile returns to his face. "Trian. Arlindria. Bhelen. Being born into this House means many things will be expected of you, but never forget that everything begins and ends with who you really are inside. Do not run against the grains of your lives, but find the place where you are meant to be, and fill that place to the best of your abilities. Whether it be king or warrior or courtier, find happiness in your situation, and do not reach places higher and lower than what your capabilities grant you. And above all, never learn to resent one another for who you are. Be just as proud as your family as you are of yourself. The bonds between siblings are interwoven tightly together, and the moment you sever those bonds is the moment everything unravels beyond repair. Even the most skilled hands cannot repair what damage this sort of hatred performs."_

_ Arlindria reaches down to pull Bhelen back in her arms, and once he is settled squirming against her, she extends her hand for Trian to take. "I love Orzammar best," she says to her brother, her young voice surprisingly firm and unwavering, "but you will always be second to my heart."_

_ Trian doesn't say anything, but he gives her hand the slightest pat before he lets her go. Bhelen remains wrapped in Arlindria's arms, silent and thoughtful as Endrin sets them both down upon the floor. He turns to give her one sad and parting smile before crawling away from her to the other side of the room where he curls up under the shadow of her father's crown where it is settled majestically on its stand, a reminder of the promising and beautiful future only one of them would be able to have._

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

When they lock eyes for the first time since Arlindria's return to Orzammar, the air grows potent and charged. The Assembly falls silent, and Oghren, the newest among their not-so-little group, trails off in his announcements of their encounters in the Deep Roads with the two rival Paragons, now both dead due to the paths they had chosen. Bhelen's fists clench, and Arlindria freezes in her tracks, her hands trembling over her heart. She has been waiting for this moment for so long, but nothing can keep it from being painful to her. He is still the Bhelen of her childhood, the brother who would have remained near to her heart had he not destroyed it so thoroughly. Even though their bonds have been damaged beyond repair, just as their father had warned them of, Arlindria stills sees the lines of the beloved and sinless child he had once been in his face, a child who had heard the same words as she had and had been instructed my the very same voice of wisdom.

"Bhelen," she whispers, so softly that he cannot possibly hear. She doesn't want him to, in any case; the name is for her own ears, a way of reminding herself that this is not straightforward revenge like Dulcia's hatred for Arl Howe or their mutual disgust in Loghain. This is a family member standing before her, a brother who in spite of everything she still wishes to save.

"Will the Assembly listen to the word of a kinslayer?" Bhelen cries, still looking into his sister's eyes. "This dwarf murdered her own brother to gain the throne, and was responsible for King Endrin's fatal grief!"

"If it is still within your conscience to say that, brother, how can you dare to let Orzammar's crown sit on your head?" Arlindria snarls, her voice breaking slightly. "Do you not remember father's words? You may have the proper dream and ambition, but you have no heart and no single drop of purity left in you. Will you hold onto your lies to the very end to get what you want?"

"Wouldn't you have, Arlindria? You were the one out of the three of us who lusted after this most of all!"

"I would have done anything, yes, but hurt either Orzammar or my own family!"

"You say that, but you stand in front of me with that crown in your hands with no intention of giving it to the rightful candidate. You would sooner kill me than give me your dream, wouldn't you?"

"I would sooner bring my brother's murderer to justice than allow my family to keep a throne that has been stained with blood."

"And you will put a fool on the throne?"

"Lord Harrowmont is no fool. A fool would not have been able to stand up against an Aeducan for so long after the legacy our House left. The only fool here I see is you. You may have come by this crown honestly if you had taken our father's words to heart."

"I did, my sister. I heard him very clearly when he said that only one of us was meant for this place. Even back then, he always knew it would be you."

"Then why did you fight against it? Why couldn't you be happy for me, and find the place that was meant for you?"

"Happy? How can I be happy for someone who has everything and who by all rights deserves everything? You try growing up in that shadow before you lecture me, dear sister. It would have been better if you and I were never born so there was only one heart to long for that throne."

"How does that justify destroying your family to satisfy your jealousy?" Harrowmont butts in as the Assembly begins to chatter in excitement. "You were not present for your father's final moments. You did not see the look on his face."

"You," Bhelen growls. "If I could not even sacrifice the crown for my own sister and brother, you cannot expect me to watch kindly while my sister gives it to you and locks me away in prison." He withdraws his maul. "If you would determine the fate of that crown, Arlindria, you'll have to get it back from the person who stole it from you!"

"My place in Orzammar as a kinslayer will not reversed. If I am to make it the truth, so be it." Arlindria removes her sword and shield from her back and readies herself. "But Bhelen, I will not kill you because of my own hatred. You are my brother, and I owe you better. If what you desire is to fight me, I will end you for depriving Orzammar of its king and throwing the kingdom into a chaos it will take years for it to recover from. My personal revenge dies here, now that I have seen you for the last time. From here on out, you are an enemy of Orzammar, and I will not allow your treason to stand!"

She brandishes her sword bravely and steps forward to fight without regret or hesitance. The image of what House Aeducan has become— Orzammar's finest tapestry unraveled and trodden on upon the floor— lingers in her mind, but she cannot feel grief anymore that her thread is severed and will never be woven back into its proper place. Bhelen had been the agent of her destruction, but as his family it was her duty to accept his fall as her own, the whole of them coming apart together rather than in fragments. Their part in House Aeducan had ended and would not be repaired to what is was, but as long as House Aeducan and, most importantly, Orzammar could go on, what happens here between herself and her brother is a small and personal tragedy. House Aeducan has Rica, Britomart, and little Endrin still, and for once she is glad to pass it into the hands of people who are close, if not equal to, her own capabilities. She had once had a place, but her fate has taken a new path and has led her to a new purpose. If she can no longer be here, if she is to atone for being a true kinslayer and for allowing her family to fall to ruin in her own inattention, there is always the surface, always the Grey Wardens to find peace in. Aside from the crown that cannot not and never will be hers, it is the most glorious burden she can think of to repay the blood that now stains her hands as her brother kneels before her, making a mockery in death of the reverence he had never been capable of in life.

0o0o0o0o0o0

**Coming Up: **When a request from a young dwarven girl sidetracks the Wardens as they are leaving Orzammar, the group begins to question Alixire and her unyielding readiness to make detours back to the Circle Tower.


	52. Alixire: Questholic

**A/N: **Here's a little piece of lightheartedness before the civil war with Loghain goes down in Denerim. The treaties may be completed, but some Wardens enjoy engaging in side questing, for more than just the monetary benefits. Enjoy!

0o0o0o0o0o0

**Fifty-Two. Alixire: Questholic.**

"Um, excuse me, Miss, but are you, uh, a mage?"

Alixire closes her eyes and takes a slow and measured breath before turning around. She's had just about enough of Orzammar and the dwarves' blatant mistrust of her magic, which is almost twice as worse as what she endures on the surface, even from the Circle Templars. The dwarves aren't afraid of the corrupt potentials of magic like the humans, but their disgust for what they do not and cannot understand is so pointed and sharp that they are more brutal in their glares and remarks to her than what she is used to from those who see blood magic in the heart of every mage. She's endured the verbal slings politely for Britomart and Arlindria's sakes, but she thinks if she hears one more word against her abilities, she'll be compelled to give the dwarves a real reason to dislike mages other than their own ignorance.

Alixire opens her eyes again, meeting the gaze of young dwarf with a decidedly cute and eager face and two ginger pigtails tied with Orlesian ribbons. She is still not thankful for the interruption— they had just been on their way out of Orzammar to head away from the confines of the stone kingdom— but her heart melts just enough at the sight of such an adorable and most likely benevolent child that she is willing to forget her annoyance to humor the girl for a few minutes.

"Yes, I'm a mage," Alixire answers, kneeling so that she is eye-to-eye with the girl. "As are two of my companions. Do you have a question for me, child?"

The girl looks as if she will swoon with delight. "I've never met an actual mage before! Are you from the Circle? Is it true you can manipulate natural forces with your mind, even stone and fire?"

"Yes, on both accounts. And that doesn't bother you? I thought dwarves weren't appreciative of anything that has to do with the Fade."

"That's just the traditionalists among us. They won't do anything that isn't purely dwarven, not even to expand their knowledge of the world." The girl snorts derisively, which makes Alixire like her all the more. "I'm Dagna, by the way. Has your First Enchanter ever spoken to you of me? Maybe my letter never reached him."

"The Chantry censors our mail, so I wouldn't be surprised. What did you want with First Enchanter Irving?"

"I want to be accepted by the Circle for study. I know that dwarves can't do magic, but I would at least like to see it firsthand and get to research it alongside the people who practice it. It's been a dream of mine ever since I was a little girl."

"So you want me to go the Circle and bring up this matter with the First Enchanter on your behalf?" Alixire clarifies.

"If it isn't too much trouble! I know that as a free mage you might not want to go back, but..."

"We'll go," Alixire says, rising to her feet.

"Now, now, Alixire, it's good to see that you're so eager to help out someone interested in magic, but shouldn't we question this young lady further?" Wynne asks. "You know better than anyone how difficult life in the Circle is."

"And this child will lose her caste if she goes to the surface," Arlindria reminds her. "You can't just accept her request without paying any respect to that."

"Aren't we supposed to be heading to Redcliffe to prepare to go to the capital with Arl Eamon?" Alain points out quietly. "Perhaps it wouldn't be best to delay something so important."

"The Circle is close enough to Redcliffe, and there is still time yet," Alixire says dismissively.

"But we'll have to go all the way back to Orzammar to give the girl the Circle's answer, since the Chantry clearly has issues delivering mail."

"I'll do it myself if I have to. I will meet the rest of you in Denerim when I'm finished."

"You know, I've been meaning to bring this up for awhile now," Alistair interrupts. "But haven't we been making a lot of trips to the Circle Tower recently? It seems that whenever we're in between treaties, some side job or another always leads us back to Lake Calenhad."

"Like that time Alixire made us go there because some important client wanted to mark his symbol in the upper levels of the Tower," Dulcia recalls.

"Or that time Alixire accepted someone's request to deliver lyrium to the Templars," add Leliana.

"Or when lethallin remembered there were ancient scrolls there that a client from Denerim was asking about," Hannon concludes.

"For someone who goes on and on about how happy she was to not be chained to the Circle anymore, this is all very suspicious," Zevran notes with a grin. "I think she has a few reasons to go back. A few _dirty_ reasons."

"Ah, yes, I had forgotten," Morrigan says drily. "The Templar boyfriend."

"Wait, Little Miss Magey here has _a lover?_" Oghren says in disbelief. "That can't be right. My purity senses say that she's the only good girl left in the group."

"Are purity senses really this common?" Alain wonders. "I've noticed that you, Zevran, and Isabela all have that power."

"It's just something about the way virgins smell, elf, as opposed to everyone else. By the way, I've noticed that you smell a lot in the other direction. For such a goody goody, you sodding reek of impurity."

"That's my doing," Zevran brags.

"By the beards of my ancestors, do us all a favor and spare the details. But since my purity senses are never wrong, I guess Little Miss Magey's paramour isn't man enough to seal the deal."

"If you're talking about Cullen, he took a vow of chastity," Alixire mutters under her breath, looking somewhat embarrassed. "And besides, he's not my 'paramour' anymore. He's still under the impression that he can't be in love with me."

"So you have to go back as often as you can to change his mind," Leliana sighs. "How romanctic."

"How foolish," Sten grumbles. "The darkspawn aren't going to wait patiently for you Wardens to resolve their love lives before attacking."

"Forget the darkspawn!" Zevran cries, smacking his fist into the palm of his hands. "Something must be done about the vow of chastity. If we work together as a team, our Alixire will still have a chance to get lucky before the final battle!"

"Aren't we confusing our priorities a little bit?" Wynne says, her voice switching into lecture mode. "I would hate to think the fate of Ferelden is being pushed aside by hormonal young adults."

"That's what it may look like, but it's more important than that to Alixire, right?" Dulcia says, placing a hand on Alixire's shoulder. "None of us have any idea whether we're going to survive this conflict or not. This may be one of her last chances to resolve things with Cullen, or at least to tell him that she loves him before she sets off for battle. Is it so wrong for her to want to conclude this without any regrets hanging over her head in case the worst happens?"

Wynne sighs, but doesn't say anything further. Dagna looks up at Alixire hopefully, having finished pretending to ignore the earlier discussion of Cullen and Alixire's virginity. "So you'll do it?" she asks, her voice rising in hopefulness.

"Of course. I'm going back there no matter what."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

No seems surprised to see Alixire back in the Tower. The first time she had returned after dealing with Uldred and the abominations, First Enchanter Irving and Knight Commander had arranged a feast for her in what remained of the dining hall, and she spent the night surrounded by the surviving mages, who delighted in bombarding her with questions on her life in the outside world with an unrelenting eagerness that reminded her of Hannon. The second time, there had been a lesser celebration, and she and her companions had been given a tour of the wings that were being repaired in the Tower. The third time, the First Enchanter had smiled knowingly and let Alixire get on with her pretend business while making sure Cullen was given duties by the Knight Commander for whatever floor she occupied herself on.

But as for Cullen, he had seemed equally alarmed and nervous each time she crossed the threshold into her old home, today being no exception. As the First Enchanter and Knight Commander pause briefly to give the company of Grey Wardens a kind yet harried greeting, he shuffles from foot to foot like a shy child, gazing at Alixire as much as he can through his downcast eyes. _("The power of love," Leliana sighs with a whisper to the rest of the group. "He was half-mad in a temper with her the first time we saw him, but even he can't stay angry when she's around")._

When the others scatter off to give her space to speak privately with her former lover, Alixire turns back to Cullen and gives him the kind of wink that had always unnerved him back when they were together, back when their greatest concern was that what they were doing was forbidden. He doesn't blush and fluster as much as he used to, but he also does not grimace as if he hates it, or if he still hates her for what she is.

"Hello, Cullen," she says softly, so as not to attract the attention of the other Templars milling around the area. "How have you been?"

"Not well," he replies, looking anywhere but in her eyes. "I can't bear being here anymore."

"I know how that feels all too well."

"Not in the way I do."

"I suppose not. Because I at least had one thing that made me want to stay." She smiles at him, even though she knows he can't see her. "You could always consider going somewhere else, you know. The other Circles in Thedas could use someone like you. When I'm finished with my business here, I could find you again."

"You don't have to," he grumbles.

"But I want to. I did promise, after all." She laughs lightly and shakes her head. "I told you, I'm not waiting for your forgiveness. The things you blame me for aren't my fault; I can't change my blood, not even for you. And I have nothing to forgive you for either. Your pain was at the hands of others, and your reaction to it was only natural given what you suffered. As long as we're on equal ground, I don't feel the need to hide anything from you or wait for passively for you like a wilting flower. I love you, Cullen. Still. And always."

"Don't... don't."

"Is it not okay? Even if it isn't, I can't make it go away."

"You can't be trusted."

"Are you saying that because I'm a mage? Or because I am _me_?"

He finally looks at her, surprised by her question. "What's the difference? You are a mage. It's a part of you."

"But not everything. You could say 'I mistrust you' to every mage just as easily as I could say 'I mistrust you' to every Templar, and for the most part, it would be true. But I don't mistrust you, Cullen, even though you are a Templar. I trust you because you're _you_. That's how it is for me, at least." She sighs and lowers her head. "But you may not feel the same. You really might not love me anymore, and that might be something I will one day have to accept. But it's fine. I know my own heart. I can't stop loving you, and if that's the way it's going to be for me, that's fine, too. I'll continue to wish for your happiness. I'll continue to be at your side, even if it's not in the way I want. That's something I wanted to tell you before I leave this time, before the battle begins."

"Before the battle begins," Cullen repeats slowly. "Is it... beginning?"

"Well, we have a civil war to fight first, but yeah. It's coming. This will be the last time I'll be able to come here before things resolve with the Blight one way or the other."

"I... didn't know."

"Perhaps it's better if you don't think of it. What will come will come. Not a single one of us can predict what will happen."

"But you... you will be fighting."

"Yes, naturally."

"Are you sure you're strong enough?"

"Cullen. I am a Grey Warden. I was strong enough to survive that, and everything else that has happened since."

"I'm sorry. But you've always been so small. I..." He trails off, clenching his fist over his heart. "Perhaps I'm still a little worried about you."

"And that's good to hear," Alixire says softly, her lips unfolding into a wide smile. "I'll try to take care, okay? And you, too. But I have to go now. We have a message to deliver in Orzammar, and it's straight on to Redcliffe from there. We have little time to waste anymore, even for the things that matter most." She takes his hand for a moment and squeezes it before returning to find her companions with a bittersweet parting wave.

"Come back," he whispers, after she has left his side and walked away for what seems to him to be the millionth time. "Come back for me again, just one more time."

0o0o0o0o0

**Coming Up: **Dulcia returns to Denerim to face down Loghain, but finds her bigger target at the steward's side, waiting to be swept up in the fire of her revenge


	53. Dulcia: Howe to Get Revenge

**A/N: **Finally we reach the moment Dulcia has been biding her time for ever since the very beginning. Arl Howe may have destroyed her family, but she knows a coward when she sees one, and she herself has lost all her hesitance and doubt long ago. Will the villain be able to stand up against her, or has she grown too strong for even him? Enjoy!

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**Fifty-Three. Dulcia: Howe to Get Revenge.**

"Welcome to the heart of Denerim," Arl Eamon says, pulling open the doors to his manor at the outskirts of the Market District. "We are in the nest of our enemies, now, and poised to make the first strike against them. Now we must wait and see how they will respond."

Dulcia strides into the manor and sets her belongings down on the cold stone floor. Her feet had been tired from their long trek from Redcliffe, but the knowledge that she is Denerim again livens her heart and fuels her spirit to propel her body even further forward. According to the town criers, Rendon Howe had been made Arl of the capital city after Urien had been deposed, and had since moved his residence from Amaranthine to the arling's estate, a place not far from where the company is settled now. He is close now, closer than he's ever been since that fateful night of slaughter, and the mere awareness that any day now he will be skewered at the end of the sword keeps Dulcia from being overburdened by their recent traveling and restless nights. She cannot afford to lose her energy now, not when the resolution she has been waiting for is so close.

A serving girl appears at the top of the stairwell and drops into a curtsy before Arl Eamon. "Your grace, pardon the intrusion, but you have visitors awaiting you in the main hall."

"So soon? I had hoped to give the Wardens time to rest and unpack their belongings. Is it urgent?"

"I think so, Your grace. It is Teryn Loghain, Ser Cauthrien, and Arl Howe."

Dulcia's hands immediately sought her sword, which she unsheathed and lifted at the ready. "Perfect," she hisses, clenching her teeth. "I was hoping my vengeance would not be long in coming."

"Lady Cousland," Arl Eamon says gently, lowering her hand back down to her side. "It is not advisable to enter into this discussion with your weapon drawn. Loghain may not yet be king, but he is still a Teryn, and one who has the support of many at his side. If you threaten him without provocation, you could very well be arrested for treason against the crown, especially since his daughter is the Queen. If it is your wish to bring Howe to justice, challenge him personally and make it a duel of honor so you will not be charged in his death. You are essential to the Grey Wardens; it would be fatal for us to lose you now. In fact, if we are to have Alistair as a viable competitor against Anora and Loghain, you will be our most solid foundation of support."

"But she is his lover," Britomart points out. "Don't people expect she will be a bit biased in favor of Alistair?"

"Yes, but she is first and foremost a Cousland and a Grey Warden in the eyes of the Landsmeet. She will be seen as representing both the interests of the nobility and of those who wish to defend Ferelden against the Blight. Even if she does have more reason to choose Alistair, her family is known for being fair and even handed in the way they act for the betterment of their country rather than for personal gain. In short, she is the polar opposite of Rendon Howe, who is hated more than anyone else within this city, and both Loghain and Alistair require people at their side who will aid their cause rather than detract from it."

"Ah, that's a relief," Alistair jokes, though he look nauseated by the continual references to himself as the future king of Ferelden, an idea he has not yet reconciled himself to. "I surround myself with the sort of people everyone loves! A member of the Crows, a Quanari, an apostate, an elf who murdered an Arl's son, a handful dwarves with gutter mouths, an Orlesian..."

"All of which prove your diplomacy and ability to associate equally across race and national boundaries."

"That's assuming I actually played a part in having them in our company... which I didn't."

"Must we have this conversation now?" Dulcia asks, her hands tightening on her weapon's pommel. "Our guests are waiting."

Alistair reaches over to brush a stray curl from her forehead. "Put aside your blade, Dulcia. Both Loghain and Howe will be punished at the proper time. I need you at my side for what is to come, so stay out of trouble for now, okay?"

Dulcia sighs and returns her sword to her back. "Very well. But don't expect me to polite and silent in his presence. He stole my father's lands and titles, and if he dares to style himself as Teyrn of Highever to my face, Andraste knows what I will do."

Loghain, Cauthrien, and Howe are waiting seated in the main hall, and they rise to their feet as Eamon and the Wardens enter into the room. "Loghain," Arl Eamon calls out to him, not without a degree of sarcasm, "this is an honor. That the regent would greet me personally..."

"How could I not greet a man who considers himself important enough to call every noble in Ferelden to Denerim in the middle of a Blight?" Loghain's eyes skim over the Wardens, but the only one familiar to him is Arlindria, whom he frowns at coldly. Arl Howe's eyes meet Dulcia's, and his skin goes bloodless for a moment, as if he is seeing a ghost.

"The Blight is the reason I am here," Eamon responds calmly. "Ferelden needs a king to unite the land against the Blight, which clearly you have been unable to do. These seven youths have been working at it in your stead, and now they find that they cannot progress further while you stand in the way of complete unification."

"Ferelden has a strong leader. Anora is just as capable as your little pets, and she has the advantage of having me at the head of her armies. Do you really think these children know how to command forces against an enemy as inexhaustible as the horde?"

"We have led countless of battles in these recent months, many of them hopeless and against forces stronger than ourselves," Arlindria interrupts. "Broodmothers, dragons, demons, abominations, possessed mages, and spirits of the dead. In spite of all odds, we have prevailed and assured that those who accompany us have survived unscathed. Considering Ostagar, perhaps Ferelden would benefit from replacing its General."

Lesser men may have reacted to such a speech with an outburst of temper, but Loghain simply glares at her coolly, keeping his composure as unmovable as stone. Dulcia despises him with all her heart, but cannot help but be impressed that he at least has some manner of control over himself, even though he has lost his mind to his own greed and ambition.

"The Grey Warden recruits," Loghain grimaces, studying them. "Lady Aeducan, is it? I thought we might meet again. You have my sympathy for what happened to your order. It was unfortunate that they chose to turn against the king and Ferelden, but so it goes."

"So it goes?" Dulcia snarls, held steady only by Alistair and Alain's hands on her shoulders. "As if we would accept the sympathy of deserters, king killers, and traitors!"

"Careful with that tongue, girl. This is my city, and your talk is treasonous. Eamon, you would do well to tame your pets before they ruin your name before you even have the chance to prove it. I had heard your illness had left you feeble, but this..."

"Oh, enough," Alixire snaps. "You should do a better job of paying the people who do your dirty work for their silence. I'm an old friend of the mage you hired to poison the Arl, and he told me everything we needed to hear about that matter."

"And not everyone at the Landsmeet will cast aside their loyalties as easily as you and these..." Arl Eamon wrinkles his nose, "...sycophants."

"How impolite of you, Eamon. Surely you recognize Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine and Denerim and Teyrn of Highever?"

"Teyrn of Highever?" Dulcia says tightly.. "Andraste curse your tongue for calling that murderer by my father's name. Those rights belong to my family, and I would sooner die than have them in the hands of the man who killed them."

"Eamon, if you cannot control her..." Loghain trails off as he gets a better look at Dulcia's face. "Ah, I see a resemblance. You are the daughter of Bryce Cousland, are you not? Lady Dulcia. Perhaps this will serve as a lesson, Howe, as to why you should never do a job half heartedly."

"I don't understand," Howe murmurs softly. "I could have sworn she was at Castle Cousland that night."

"The Maker spared me so I could bear witness to your crimes, and to avenge those who you killed," Dulcia says, clenching her fists as she tries to keep herself from physically lashing out against him.

"Curb your tongue, churl." Cauthrien steps forward, her hands inching towards her blade. "Your betters are speaking, and you were already ordered to be silent by the regent himself."

"Enough, Cauthrien." Loghain sighs and steps in between his supporters and Dulcia. "If you have any complaints against the Arl, Lady Cousland, I am sure the seneschal will be more than happy to listen to your harping. As for you, Eamon, I am disappointed. Our king is dead and the nation is frightened. You weaken our efforts and divide our nation with your selfish ambitions for the throne."

Dulcia opens her mouth to berate him again, but Alain shushes her and speaks on her behalf. "You were the one who divided Ferelden," he says in his soft yet commanding vote. "You decided yourself that you could lead against the Blight better than the Grey Wardens, but you have no idea who we are or what price we pay to defeat the darkspawn. If you continue to hold us as a foolish children's tale, you will lose the land you hold so dear because of your pride. If you will not stand with us, not even you will be able to survive."

"Foolish child," Loghain says, shaking his head. "The emperor of Orlais also thought I could not bring him down. Expect no more mercy than I showed him."

He turns around and gestures for Arl Howe and Cauthrien to follow. As they head for the doors of the estate, Dulcia calls after them. "Next time I see you, Rendon Howe, be sure to have reconciled yourself to the Maker and Andraste. You're a dead man walking, and your time is running out."

"Dulcia," Alistair says gently, keeping her held firmly against him as the three traitors leave the room with their backs turned to her. "Keep calm. The time will come, I swear."

"It can't come soon enough," she chokes out, her body trembling. "The Maker teaches us forgiveness, but Andraste help me, I cannot do it. There are some evils in the world that I could perhaps be able to spare some pity for, but what he did to me, to my family, I cannot, _cannot _forgive."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

As they make their way through the Arl of Denerim's dungeons, Dulcia remembers her mother and father in their final moments. They had known what was coming, and though they had accepted it, she could tell back then that they were afraid. It hadn't been their time to go, and they were well aware of everything that had been lost, everything they were losing. They would never see their grandson grow to adulthood, lift his first sword, or fall in love. They would never again comfort their son or hold their daughter, or witness what they would make of their lives as they came into their own. Her mother would never laugh again with Lady Landra, and her father would never ride his horse beside Ser Gilmore through Highever, surveying the lands he had worked so hard to make happy.

But in spite of this, Dulcia knows that there was some happiness in their hearts before they passed. She had been spared, after all. They loved her, more than they loved even themselves, and they were content that she at least would not have to undergo the blades of Howe's men and have her life cut short before she ever did anything worthy of pride. Whatever dying hopes they had, they placed onto her along with the enduring belief that she would not disappoint them or let their hopes fall. As her father had said, it was their parting gift to her. _Use it well, and never again fear to follow the path you were made to follow._

Dulcia is sickened by the memory of her parents' death, but that they were able to find contentment even through their fear of dying and losing the precious things in their lives gives her peace. They had died for her, but their death wouldn't be in vain. She has lived on for their sakes, and now she will settle the score and set their spirits to rest. She will not shame herself or fail them now, after all this time. She is strong because of them, and because of the faith they had that she would not allow their sacrifice to go to waste.

"Look what we have here," Howe chuckles to himself as she at last finds her way to where he is hiding. "Bryce Cousland's little spitfire, still playing the man. I never thought you would be foolish enough to turn up here, but I never thought you'd actually live either."

"More the fool you, then. I lived, and lived for this very moment with all my heart. If you thought I'd cower when I saw you prancing around like Loghain's favorite little lordling, you were sorely mistaken."

"You really think you can keep your family's honor by doing this? I wiped the Cousland name from Ferelden history, and you, the only one left to carry it, will provide the final funeral for it here. Even if you do live, which you won't, you'll end up dead in the Deep Roads one day, and that will be the legacy of your precious family. You are the last of your line, and the last of _nothing_. Your grudge against me is pointless, a folly you will soon regret."

"Regret this? Ha! There is very little I will value more than relieving this world of a spineless murderer who cannot even get a title on his own without kissing the ass of people more powerful than him."

Arl Howe bristles at this, but does not yet draw his weapons. "Say as you will, but this murderer tore down the mighty Couslands, and reduced your father and mother to shrieking children before I slaughtered them. And your nephew and sister-in-law? I burned their bodies on a trash heap along with the commoners and all the other refuse from your beloved Highever. By the Maker, if you could have seen it! That foolish and proud family I have always been forced to be second to, destroyed by my own hands!"

"Gloat if it helps you sleep at night, Howe, but you are nothing more than a coward," Dulcia says, smiling sadly at him. "My family worked for what they earned in life, and struggled as hard as laborers in the field in order to be strong and truly understand our people. And how did you defeat them? By slaughtering them in the night while they fought in defense of the defenseless, the children and women and innocents you killed. How can I not mock a man who gave himself glory through the death of those who could not even lift swords to protect themselves? Your nobility is nothing but a sham, and your words are just bluster I will not rise to anymore. Ever since my parents died, I thought of your face every time I felt myself getting weak or losing my resolve. You, Rendon Howe, are responsible for fueling my fire and making me stronger than I ever would have been on my own. And now that strength you inspired in me will be used to kill you. I don't care anymore what you did to defile my parents' bodies, or Oren's or Oriana's. They'll have their revenge through me, and you will regret that you ever harmed them a million times over when you die by my sword."

"There it is, right there," Arl Howe whispers, all of his former bravado seemingly sucked out of him. "That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success over me. It seems you have made something of yourself after all. Your father would be proud. I, on the other hand, want you dead more than ever."

"But not," Dulcia smiles, drawing her blade, "as badly as I want _you _dead."

With a roaring battle cry, she lunges at him, allowing the others to take care of his guards and mages as the hunter and the prey face each other one-on-one. Howe is a strong fighter, and his body is sturdier than her own, but what Dulcia lacks in physical power, she makes up for in force of will and relentlessness. Every ounce of energy she has been saving for this moment unleashes, and she hounds him until he is backed up against the wall, fighting her alone and with fear and cowardice displayed plainly in his eyes. She knows his weaknesses all too well. He is no hero and has never been, and all his attempts at glory have been vain and selfish, on behalf of his own ambitions rather than for the good of anyone else. He fights for his name alone, and with nothing else to live for and no one else to protect, his sword has no feeling, no motive for matching the passion and fervor with which she attacks him. When she presses forward, he flattens himself against the bars of his dungeon with nowhere left to go. In a moment, his blades are knocked from his hands and sent spinning to the floor.

Dulcia reaches down to where her dagger is strapped against her thigh and plunges it into his heart over and over again until he is limp at her feet, his wide and unseeing eyes locked upon her, the final Cousland who would thwart his twisted path.

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**Coming Up: **As the final conflict approaches, Morrigan begins to realize her feelings for Hannon are more than she thought. Will her hatred of love end things between them forever, or will she welcome the hated emotion in her heart even in spite of the consequences?


	54. Hannon: Forbidden Word of Love

**A/N: **So I just finished settling into my new internship, and I will be working 9 to 5 on the first three days of the week, but I have the remaining four days to myself, so I hope to continue writing on a reasonable schedule as we reach the end of our story. I'm just happy I don't have to pick up my old job at the local grocery store this summer. That was a job I wouldn't even wish on my worst enemy... grocery store customers are surprisingly brutal towards cashiers. In any case, hope you enjoy the new installment!

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**Fifty-Four. Hannon: Forbidden Word of Love.**

Back when he was among the Dalish, Hannon had always wondered what it would be like to live in a shemlen's manor. For someone who had run everyday beneath the trees, as one with nature as one of the elvhen could hope to be, the thought was inconceivable. He did not think he could sleep without the sky enveloping him, or the rushing air purring lullabies into his ears. Shemlen manors were like prisons, all cold stone and windowless, dark corridors, and he always imagined that he would sooner sleep in the most frigid parts of Ferelden completely naked than he would rest his head on a soft feather pillow and have his dreams trapped by walls on every side.

After the Wardens have returned to the estate after their attempted rescue of the shemlen queen— how she had the honor of becoming a beloved figure to Ferelden, Hannon cannot comprehend; he had thought humans to be unscrupulous, but she takes the word to new levels— Hannon digs through their supplies and to find the tent he had used on the road. It is supposed to rain tonight, but even that does not deter him. He is tired to the bone, and his whole body aches with the exertion of killing his way through the Arl's household as well as Ser Cauthrien's men, but the thought of having to share a house with the backstabbing queen makes him more than happy to give up the supposed comforts of the Guerrin's estate to sleep on the hard ground. She seems to him like the kind of person who would have them assassinated while they slept if it helped her gain her precious throne.

Hoisting his tent and stakes over his shoulder, Hannon wanders down the main hall, trying to find the door leading out of the estate. Shemlen have a way of making their houses more complicated then they need to be, and already he has wandered into rooms he is not meant to be in, although Arl Eamon has given them free reign of the place and has cast a forgiving eye on the way they have taken over his property and made it their own. He can't afford to be too haughty with them, the way Anora feels she has the right to be. They are the sole hope for the future, and without them, nothing is safe.

When he at last finds the door, he sees Morrigan nearby, gazing indifferently at a portrait of Lady Isolde and Connor hung on the wall. He steps up beside her, brushing his knuckles gently against her hand to alert her to his presence. "If only that pretty shemlen wife of the arl were here," he jokes with a mock sigh as she turns to look at him. "Between her and Anora, they could make this little party a paradise we won't soon forget."

Morrigan frowns coolly, her eyes falling on the tent material draped across his shoulder and down his back. "You're setting up camp?" she asks. "Were you not given a room?"

"Oh, I was given a room, lethallin. With the Crow and City Boy, of all people. Whoever was in charge of putting together the rooms probably thought it would be cute to put the elvhen together so we can form our own little clan in the midst of the shemlen. The offer is tempting, but I'd rather not encroach on a love nest or move in with the durgen'len, big man, and princeling. I will be happier under the sky and the stars, and will rest easier. And what of you? Will my lady join me?"

"They have done the same to me, and put me together with the Circle mages. Tis not a terrible fate, and I have heard it will storm tonight." She folds her arms across her chest, her eyes looking somewhat troubled. "But all the same, this place tries at my nerves. If I have another servant approach me and ask if I would like some clothes, I may very well go mad. And I have little interest in this matter of making that fool Alistair king of Ferelden."

"Fool he may have been once, but perhaps our princeling has grown since the days we first met him. He is no child anymore, and the day may come when even he will out fox that viper of a woman who now wears the crown."

"That viper of a woman has more strength in her little finger than he has in his entire body."

"She may have power, but he has a feeling heart that she has not, and one that beats for more than just his own interests. To learn to care for things other than yourself and your own power is a strength in itself. That is what I have learned from being a Warden, lethallin. There are precious things in this world that power alone cannot protect."

"Precious things," she echoes flatly.

"Yes. Power could not save Tamlen from being consumed right before my eyes. It could not save me from being tainted, and if the bearded shemlen had not found me, it would not have saved me from becoming a ghoul. And you. It will not be the thing that will keep you at my side, if you choose to stay."

Morrigan turns away from him sharply. "You think of me as a precious thing. Don't tell me that you actually believe in a thing so foolish as love."

"You would like my opinion the matter, lethallin?"

"Don't play the fool. I know it has been on your mind. This began as physical intimacy, but you have done your best to impress me further. You even stepped between Flemeth and me without the hope of reward... unless what you were hoping for was not a material reward."

"That is a possibility," Hannon says with a smile. "I have all that I want, save one, and only you may give it to me."

Morrigan shivers slightly, looking unnerved. "Do not smile so. You have begun to make me anxious, and I dislike this sense of dependency you draw from me. Tis a weakness I abhor. I asked your assistance with Flemeth, but I do not like that I should feel indebted so much to you... that my heart should feel so invested."

"If it pains you, you need not think on it. I would have done it regardless of how you felt of me. I really do expect nothing in return if you do not wish to give me anything."

"If I could have stopped thinking of this matter, I would have as soon as I started, you senseless fool. Do you not understand how it plagues me to be so overcome by you of all people, who only takes life seriously when it is convenient for you? You laugh and mock, but as soon as it comes to the matters that trouble me and shake everything I have been taught, you take every word and action in earnest. If this is love, I must ascertain that you do not feel the same. I will not accept it, if it is something we share. It will not come to good."

Hannon gently sets down his tent and leans up against her by the wall, trapping her on either side with his arms so she cannot turn away from him again. "And if I do?"

"Then we are both fools, and both must cease this immediately. We have carried this intimacy for too long, and have allowed ourselves to grow too close. This is a weakness for both of us."

"A weakness? What is it that City Boy always says? '_There is no point in killing if you have no one you love enough to protect. Weakness are only weaknesses if you allow the enemy to see them and use them against you'. _Is it so bad that you are the person I wish to protect, lethallin? I cannot win this war if I do it only for myself. I will return from it with nothing if I do so, or not return at all."

"You are not listening to me! Do not be such a fool. I do this for your own good, since you seem incapable of being purely selfish anymore. I am not like other women. I will not settle down and be a companion, and you will not give up your people and throw yourself into the world that stole your rights from you. I am not worth your distraction, and you are not worth mine."

"Worth? Is it up to you to determine what is worthy to me, emma lath? Is it no longer for me to decide? Even if you think me not worth your love, that does mean I must love you any less. I will do as I like, and I will not self-inflict a punishment I have not earned by changing my heart."

"You are impossible!" Morrigan tries to push him away, but Hannon remains where he is, gritting his teeth in determination. "You may have your way, but you will regret it in the end."

"Perhaps. Perhaps I very well may, emma lath. I have not forgotten yet that you have more in store for us. Asha'belannar sent you with us for a reason, and surely the time to reveal that purpose is coming soon."

"So you suspected this all along?"

"I learn everything that interests me, and if I cannot do that, I hound the answer until it comes to me. But in our case, it seems we are running out of time. You will tell me on your own before long, and then it will be settled. But tell me this, at least. Do you think my heart is so feeble that I will not be able to still protect and care for you when you inform me of why you are here? A body that has undergone the taint does not fear betrayal or death. It fears only that it will be unable to do what it is meant to do, and I would not believe you would dare stand in the way of us defeating the Archdemon. The fact that we are the only ones who can do it may very well be the soul of the reason why you are here."

"You should not trust me so easily."

"I trust alone in the fact that you are the one I have chosen. There could have been so many others over the years, but none of them were you. There is meaning in the fact that only you could retain my attention, as inconstant as it is."

"Fool... you are such..."

"And no one knows it as well I do, emma lath." Hannon gives her cheek a gentle stroke before stepping away from her. "But it seems as if the day is growing old. We have been through much today. Our dear Asha'nan has come into her own, and who is to say which one of us will be next? We should rest and prepare for whatever awaits us in the morning." He reaches down and lifts his tent back into his arms. "It seems it has started raining since we've been talking. I would not fault you for choosing to stay here. I have been trying for you, and I doubt you wish to spend the night suffering at my side when you can be warm and tended to in here. As I told you, I expect nothing from you. This was all something I chose to do myself. I did not fall for you because I thought you would be easy to have. In fact, it was just the opposite."

"This place does not suit me," Morrigan answers gruffly. "I grew up in the Wilds. I can survive a bit of rain."

"I am glad. I will gladly go with you to enjoy a night in the cold."

"You will regret this later," she repeats softly, balling her fists. "There are things in this world that you can only have for a time before they go away."

"Then let us enjoy this time while we can, emma lath." He extends his hand, waiting for her to accept it. "Let us keep dreaming this beautiful dream until it is time to wake up."

0o0o0o0o0o0

**Coming Up: **Anora realizes she needs the Wardens' support to retain her throne, but Dulcia has more in mind for the crown of Ferelden


	55. Dulcia: Rival Queen

**A/N: **Anora, Anora, Anora. The first time I played the game, I tried to keep myself from being arrested only to have you sell me out the enemy and provide Loghain with fodder to use against me at the Landsmeet. Haven't liked you since, and trust me, neither do the people you betrayed. Enjoy!

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**Fifty-Five. Dulcia: Rival Queen.**

"How are you feeling?" Alistair asks softly, lifting Dulcia's arm to assure her bandages are firmly in place above her elbow. "Has the bleeding gone down?"

Dulcia winces for a moment, then quickly rearranges her expression so he doesn't notice. The wound Ser Cauthrien had given her during their skirmish is no small matter, but Alistair has enough to worry about at the moment without her adding to his troubles. In many ways, his torn heart over becoming king and stepping into a role he's never thought himself suitable for is more biting than the blade that had torn into her skin. Her injury will heal and knit back together, but the moment he decides to accept the crown on his head and swear himself before Ferelden, he can never go back and be as he once was.

"It seems to be getting better," she says with a strained smile. "I really don't find it too troubling. We made it out in the end, and Arl Howe is dead. Truthfully, this was a rather small price to pay."

"I still won't forgive her," Alistair vows, squeezing Dulcia's hands tightly. "Betraying us like that... saying we were kidnapping her. Of course, I knew it was a bad idea to trust her, but to think she would feed us to the lions and put you in that sort of danger."

"Ah, well. Even if she hadn't lied, I'm sure Ser Cauthrien would have tried to have us arrested regardless. We did kill Loghain's little pet, after all. But now Cauthrien is dead, Loghain himself is at last vulnerable. We only have one target left in our way."

"Two targets, if you ask me. Anora may try to play nice, but I don't doubt for a minute that we're expendable to her."

"All the same," Eamon interjects, "it would be unwise to refute her so soon after she asked for your assistance. Anora is a formidable enemy, but she would make an equally formidable ally if we play her just right. At the moment, she seems just as interested as stopping her father as we are, and if we can take advantage of that, I suggest that we do."

"Oh, right. We can keep the snake as a pet and end up surprised _again _when she bites us in the back."

"I think Arl Eamon makes a fair point," Arlindria interrupts. "We already know that she will betray us when it is convenient for her, so we are fully aware of what moves she will make. And she has already proven that she underestimates us, so it will not be difficult to outmaneuver her if need be. I would say that we have the advantage over her, whether she chooses to truly assist us or not."

"I have known Anora since she was a child," Eamon says with a nod. "She may be ruthless, but she is not prone to thinking people do not appreciate her. Having Loghain as a father has made her spoiled in that sense. Anora is used to thinking she's important; she's had Cailan following her every word from the very beginning, and she is well loved by her people. More importantly, she knows better than anyone who was the one pulling Cailan's reigns, so she fancies herself too powerful to lose her position to someone she considers to be an upstart. If you were to speak with her directly, she would tell you exactly what is on her mind without daring to think that you do not share her high opinion of herself." Eamon strokes his beard thoughtfully. "In fact, she did ask to speak with the Wardens privately on the matter of the crown. Perhaps this would be the best time to investigate her plan of action."

"I'll be happy to have a word with her," Hannon says with a malicious grin. "That shemlen could use a good talking to. And perhaps a few arrows to the chest."

"I'd actually rather not see her face for the rest of my stay here," Alixire says coolly. Like Dulcia, she had been wounded during Cauthrien's attempted arrest of their group, and even with healing magic, her shoulder had needed to be bound so tightly that she could barely move it without pushing herself to the point of agony.

"I wasn't suggesting that you all speak with her," Eamon clarifies. "That would seem too much like an ambush. It would be best if a representative among you approached her for the time being and acted in the interests of the group as a whole. And naturally, the best person for that task would be Dulcia."

"Naturally," Dulcia grumbles.

"Anora is familiar with the Cousland family, and would probably be more encouraged to talk to someone of her own race, if I am being candid. And your... attachment... to Alistair most likely concerns her. She realizes that you will be the most difficult to convert, so she will want to put all of her persuasive efforts into you, in hopes that once your mind is changed, you will advise the others to follow."

"I hate to give her the satisfaction of thinking for a moment that she has me on her side," Dulcia says, massaging her arm. "And if she insults Alistair, don't think I won't defend him."

"I'm sure she would be surprised if you didn't. You are no feeble flower, Lady Cousland; all of Denerim knows that by now."

"Very well," she relents with a sigh. "If we must play this game, then we must. We've come much too far to lose now. Not to her. Not to anyone."

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Anora is resting in her room when Erlina shows Dulcia inside for their private meeting. She has shed her stolen armor and settled into a formal gown which emphasizes her slim waist and elegant throat, and her hair is pinned neatly into twin braids on either side of her head. _Pretty_, Dulcia thinks to herself, _but then again, many lethal things are. _She sits down across from Anora, feigning a look of polite deference as the queen acknowledges her with a nod.

"Lady Cousland. How good to see you again. I knew your family, and they spoke very well of you. It feels as if I know you already."

"So I have heard."

"I was very grieved to hear of the fate that befell them. Your mother was particularly dear to me, and I had been very eager to meet your sister-in-law and nephew. How fitting that Howe's life was ended by your hands after all he made you suffer."

"But not fitting enough for you to pardon the crime when Ser Cauthrien came to arrest me, I see."

Anora's face tightens slightly. "I apologize for any trouble my actions may have caused you. With seven well trained Grey Wardens in the room along with your extensive party of companions, I assumed you would be well equipped to handle Cauthrien and her men, although I see from your wounds that perhaps I underestimated the number of fighters she had on her side. I will remind you, in any case, that I told you not to tell anyone who I was, and if you had done so, it would not have been necessary for me to have accused you of anything in that situation."

"And yet we would have been arrested under those terms, your majesty."

"Or you could have fought your way through just as ably as you did when my identity was revealed." Anora waves her hand dismissively. "I know what I did was not well received by any of your companions, so please at least give me the change to redeem myself and do a good turn for you."

"At a price, I assume?"

"I will be blunt with you. Your voice will be a strong one in the days to come, as both a Warden and a noblewoman. It is to you that Eamon listens, and in the matters of our politics, your foreign companions may heed your opinion as well. I will need your assistance to stop my father and retain my throne, and you will need my assistance to erode my father's considerable support. We share a common purpose, and an alliance would benefit us both. I would welcome your support in the Landsmeet."

Dulcia leans forward as if she is considering Anora's words. "You are aware that Alistair has the better claim, as the sole surviving heir of King Maric?"

Anora scoffs without even bothering to mask the contempt in her expression. "I have been well aware of Alistair for some time. Cailan kept tabs on him, and informed me of the relation between them. Alistair seems a good enough man and biddable enough, but the thought of him on the throne is laughable. Do you really think he is capable of leading an entire kingdom? He does not even attempt to lead the Wardens, and he is the eldest among you!"

"True, but he has grown since the days when we banded together after Ostagar. He has toughened himself and grown more astute, and he has traveled Ferelden to witness the needs of our kingdom from Denerim to the Frostback Mountains. In fact, we have dabbled in more risky politics and foreign relations in a few months than you would see in a year, your majesty."

"And he did so with the aid of yourself and your companions. Tell me, will each of you stand behind his throne to instruct him when he becomes king?"

"I would stay, not that I think he desperately needs my help. He has a strong will and devotion to his duties, and the only thing I can give him that he could not have on his own is my love."

"So you seek the throne for yourself?" Anora asks, her eyes narrowing. "You wish to be queen?"

"I will rule at his side if he will have me, and if I choose him to be a more suitable ruler than yourself. Which I have not determined yet, of course. I have heard you are capable queen, and I do not intend to dismiss you lightly." Dulcia sits back in her chair. "You mentioned something earlier about trouble in the Alienage. One of my companions was born there, and would have lived the rest of his life there had he not been brought into the Wardens. Have you been to the Alienage and seen what it's like?"

"My father would not allow me to go there, but I have seen through the gates often enough. Is there a reason behind you asking this question?"

"The first time I was there, I thought I was going to be sick at how disgusting it was. People dying and starving on the streets, children wearing scraps of clothing patched together... it was hideous. And there Alain was at the center of it, dressed in the best clothes he had and dripping with blood. The son of the Arl of Denerim had raped his cousin, and had planned to do the same to his betrothed. Alain killed him. Killed him for a crime that the criminal was too important to be properly executed for in the first place. They were going to arrest him before Duncan stopped them."

"I fail to see where you are going with this, Lady Cousland."

"The next person I met was Alixire," Dulcia continues, ignoring Anora. "She was such a darling girl, always smiling and laughing and making us feel more at ease with ourselves. But all that time, her heart was hurting. She had almost been locked away by the Chantry simply for not showing enough interest in being a member of the Circle and for getting entangled in a scheme involving a blood mage. And then there was Hannon. He lived among a kind so destroyed by humans that it took weeks for him to even acknowledge me without scowling. And Britomart and Arlindria. They were rejected by their homeland, and were left to start a new life on a foreign surface that had nothing to do with the way of life they were raised under. What would they have done, if not for us? Where would they have gone?"

"I truly empathize with your friends' stories, but I do not understand what you expect of me. The other Wardens have found happiness since, have they not?"

"Yes, they have. But if they hadn't... if they had appeared before your throne just as they were on the days that I first met them, what would you say? If they reached out to you, hurt and embittered, what would you do?"

Anora frowns as she toys with her hands in her lap. "I hope you are not suggesting that I am personally responsible for every individual conflict within my kingdom. People should have a sense of responsibility towards their private concerns."

"But you are thinking on a simplistic level. What if what is wrong with Alain is the very same thing rotting the heart of the Alienage? What if they represent something greater than themselves? What if Alain is the Alienage, Hannon is the Dalish, Alixire is the Circle, and Britomart and Arlindria are Orzammar? What would you say?"

Anora stares at Dulcia intensely, her lips pursing together. "Is it my place to govern those who will not be governed?"

"I wonder. Should we help those who will not ask, or let them choke on their own pride? Should we let the limbs suffer as long as the core of the body remains?" Dulcia chuckles lightly. "It is something we will have to think of. Is your power and firm hand what we need, or is it Alistair's heart and understanding of the wider world? That is what it will come down to."

"Enough with your riddles Lady Cousland. Will you support me or not?"

"I will be honest. Since I love Alistair, I know what he will be capable of as king, as well as what things will be difficult for him to do. I cannot say the same thing for you. If you want my voice so badly, earn it with your words and actions in these upcoming days. If I am impressed enough, I will gladly lend my support and stay by Alistair's side as a Grey Warden rather than a queen. Will that do?"

"It will do. Even if you love the fool, there is no way you will be able to deny that I am the better ruler once you come to a better understanding of who I am and what I have done. And when you come to realize it, I will keep my word and throw my support behind you when it comes time to bring down my father. As I said, it will benefit both of us."

"Then I will agree to consider the matter and act according to what I feel is correct."

"That is all I can ask of you." Anora rises to her feet. "Thank you for speaking with me, Lady Cousland. May we both enjoy the fruits of our alliance, and work together to quell this civil war and Blight."

"And may we both do what is best for Ferelden in all we do," Dulcia says, brushing her fingers lightly against her bandages. "Let's bring this suffering at last to an end."

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**Coming Up: **Alain returns to his home for the first time and gets back in touch with everything he left behind


	56. Alain: Homecoming

**A/N: **After this chapter, I anticipate about ten or so more to go, so we're almost there. Yay! This has been quite the undertaking, but I've been enjoying myself. Since we've come down to it, I've at last decided on my favorite character, which is *dundundunda* still Alixire! I like mages, I cannot lie. Hannon is the easiest to write and Dulcia hands down has my favorite romance scenes to work with, but I just love the dynamics of being a part of the Circle (and of course, having Cullen as a sweetie pie). As for this chapter, please enjoy!

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**Fifty-Six. Alain: Homecoming.**

Alain hadn't thought it was possible, but the Alienage is in even worse condition than it was when he left it. Before, it had looked and smelled filthy and dilapidated, but there had been at least some semblance of order under the control of the hahren and other city elders. Now, everything has descended into chaos. Elves litter the streets, yelling and imploring and weeping, and notices describing the plague and quarantine cover every surface, falling from the grip of their insubstantial adhesive and tumbling to the ground and trailing into the mud to be strewn across the dying grass.

"_This _is where you live?" Hannon says, looking at Alain in horror. "_This _is what our elven brethren must endure with the shemlen? Why would you choose to live in such a place?"

"It's not usually as bad as this," Alain says, pulling one of the notices from a fence. According to the flyer, questions about the quarantine must be directed to the makeshift hospital in the center of the city where a cure is supposedly being administered to infected elves. There is a brief mention of Tevinter, but the rest of the words have been distorted by rain and sun.

"Even so, living with the Dalish is in every way better than enduring this," Hannon presses, wincing as an emaciated woman walks by with a half-alive child pressed to her chest. "Why did you not seek us out?"

"We live among shem. They tell us that the Dalish are a myth, and we have no way to prove them wrong. Besides, this is where are our homes and families are. It is not easy for us to abandon everything we have to chase what we believe is a dream." Alain sighs and rumples the notice into a ball. "The queen was right to bring us here. The Alienage has endured plagues before, but it has never been like this. The hahren and Chantry usually keep things under control."

"Perhaps your hahren has been quarantined himself?" Zevran suggests.

Alain's jaw tightens. "Perhaps Loghain saw to it. We will see." He gestures his companions forward. "My house is on the way to the hovel they are using as a hospital. My father should have an idea of what's going on, so it might not hurt to question him before we act."

Alain tries to keep his voice confident and unemotional, but he isn't as sure of himself as he pretends to be. There is no guarantee that his father will still be home, or even alive. Cyrion is not as young as he once was, and if the plague happened to find its way to him, it isn't a given that he would be able to survive. He is strong, but no longer as durable as his son in these matters of sickness and health. Without anyone home to take care of him, anything may have happened when his son was away. Alain doesn't want to think of such things, but the possibility still exists that he will open his door and find his last ties to his home severed, and the family he had left behind forever lost to him.

He raps on the door, holding his breath. After a moment, the curtain lifts and sees Soris looking out at them with a comically shocked expression on his face. Alain cannot help but break into a smile at the sight of him. They hadn't been together since the day of their weddings, and there hadn't been much of a chance to say any proper farewells back then, given Alain's situation and near brush with the hangman's noose. Soris had probably assumed he had died along with the other Wardens at Ostagar. Other than the quarantine notices, there are no other bulletins posted in the Alienage. The wanted poster that indicates that seven Wardens, including a dark haired elf, had escaped the darkspawn massacre is notably absent, so Soris would have had no way of knowing that Alain had been fortunate enough to survive.

Soris throws open the door and greets Alain with a wide eyed stare. "Cousin?" he stammers, looking more convinced that Alain's ghost has shown up in the Alienage than he is that the man himself has returned. "A-alive?"

"Sorry for worrying you," Alain says, gently ruffling Soris' hair. "We were in Denerim earlier, but there was no way for me to get word to you. The Alienage was already quarantined."

Soris shakes his head, still trying to swallow the idea that Alain is standing right in front of him. "How did you survive? Are you all right? Are the darkspawn still in Ferelden, or have you been able to stop them?"

The other Wardens exchange glances at this barrage of question. "Are you sure this is your cousin?" Zevran wonders on behalf of everyone. "Or is it Hannon's long lost brother?"

"One at time, Soris," Alain says, stepping over the threshold and into the house. "We survived by the goodness of the Maker and the intervention of the Witch of the Wilds after Teyrn Loghain betrayed the king and the Wardens. I am well, but the darkspawn are still in the south. It will not be long before we will have to engage them." He glances around the hovel and pops his head into the bedroom. "Where is father?"

"Quarantined, but alive. I've been staying with him ever since the plague broke out to make sure he's taking care of himself, and well..." Soris lowers his voice. "The fact is, I don't think anything was ever even wrong with him. He was perfectly fine, and then one day he went out to the shop to replenish the pantry, and never came back. I asked around, and the Tevinter mages said he had to be taken in for quarantine. I know all the signs of the plague, and I'm nearly certain he wasn't displaying any symptoms. I have a bad feeling that he was taken away for other reasons."

"What's this about Tevinter?" Alixire asked, her eyes narrowing. "Are they in charge of the hospital?"

"Yes. Apparently they've developed some kind of magical cure that combats the plague."

"Is that what they're saying?" Alixire folds her arms across her chest, looking disgusted. "That's highly unlikely. I know Tevinter has more advanced magical knowledge than Ferelden, but their resources are too strained at the moment to be developing what would have to be a monumentally expensive potion or salve. All their money has gone into funding the war with the Qunari, and magical developments like the one you speak of require years of research and testing beyond what the Tevinters can afford."

"So you suspect something else," Alain says, his face lapsing back into a frown. "In that case, we have little time to waste. "The Tevinters aren't known for having pleasant dealings with elves."

"In that case, go look for Shianni," Soris suggests. "She'll want to see you, and she's already been attempting to investigate the matter with Tevinter on her own. She hasn't been able to do much, but she's loud enough to call everyone's attention to her suspicions and raise a few more questions. Last I heard, she's outside of the hospital rallying support."

"I'll speak with her right away, then." Alain reaches out to give Soris a comforting pat on the shoulder. "You and I will talk again later. I would like to hear about everything that's been going on while I've been away."

"Ah, yes. And about Nesiara and Valora, too, right?"

Alain shrugs. "Why not? I'll try my best to return with Father, so be prepared for guests later."

"While you go off and be a hero? Story of my life, Cousin."

"No one is stopping you from dealing with Tevinter yourself, are they?" Zevran says with an annoyed frown, but Alain simply shrugs and says his goodbyes without bothering to be hurt. He was the one to leave his family behind, the one who had prayed for any means to escape his wedding regardless of who paid the price; Soris' bitterness is well-deserved, and he would rather live with this resentment than escape his sins without proper repentance.

Shianni is fairly easy to find once they return to the inner heart of the city. As Soris promised, she is loudly speaking out against the Tevinters in front of the hospital, though not many of the elves seem to be listening since they all have their own complaints to voice to the foreign guards. The guards themselves appear to be unruffled by the cacophony surrounding them, and blandly repeat over and over again that the quarantine cannot be disturbed, and that any loved ones inside the building will not be returned until the threat of the plague has passed.

"Shianni!" Alain calls out when his cousin finally takes a break from one of her tirades. She is flushed, and her eyes shinning brightly like fire, but Alain is happy to see her passionate and so vibrantly alive. He had worried when he left that she would struggle with her recovery and feel unable to to return to the spirited woman she had once been, but she has always been resilient and strong, much in the way her Aunt Adia had been.

Shianni turns sharply at the sound of Alain's voice. Like Soris, she looks confused and uncertain of what she is seeing. After a moment, she reaches out a hand and touches his face, testing his solidity, his realness.

"Is it you?" she whispers. "Is it really you? We all thought you were dead. Valendrian even had a funeral for you after word came back from Ostagar that the king had been defeated."

Alain places his hand over hers and squeezes it. "I'm just fine, as you can see. And you?"

"I thought the world had turned upside down after what happened at your wedding. And then all this... I thought it couldn't possibly get worse." She waves her hand, indicating the hospital as well as the Tevinter guards.

"Wedding?" Zevran asks, lifting an eyebrow and looking uncharacteristically unamused. "Oh-ho, now the truth comes out. All this time you were a married man, then?"

Alain doesn't bother to feel sheepish, and wonders if Zevran even realizes the hypocrisy of a notorious libertine accusing him of infidelity. "Didn't I mention? Maybe you weren't with us yet when I told this story to the others. The ceremony was never completed. The Arl of Denerim's son kidnapped all of the women, and after I killed him, I ended up conscripted into the Wardens."

He nods towards the hospital, once again addressing Shianni. "Is Father in there?"

"That's what they're saying, but no elf that goes in there ever comes out. There is no way of knowing, but I'm certain that something horrible is going on with the mages. Uncle Cyrion and Valendrian weren't even sick!"

"Valendrian, too?" Alain's mouth settles into a grim line. "I almost wish I hadn't left. Had I been here, I would have never let this happen."

"Don't say that, Cousin," Shianni says, taking his hand. "You don't understand how difficult it was to watch you the way you were before, after your mother died. You were lucky to have the chance to live the way you wanted, so don't regret it for a moment or wish you could be everywhere to save everyone. You deserve happiness."

"And you? Don't you deserve it to?"

"If you want to make me happy, get Uncle Cyrion and Valendrian and all the others out of there. I can think about the outside world later. For now, all I want is for the Alienage to be safe."

"And that," Alain says with a small smile, "is something we can both agree on."

0o0o0o0o0

According to Hannon, when Dalish elves are children, they spend much of their childhood listening to stories describing the evil of the shemlen. Every child knows the story of Arlathan and the betrayal of Andraste and Shartan, and of the Exalted Marches of the Chantry that destroyed the elvhen's hopes of returning to their former glory. Alain is just as familiar with these tales as Hannon is, but in the Alienage, the emphasis of the words had been different. The shem were quietly abused by the city elves behind closed doors, who feared what the humans might do if they were too loud with their complaints, but no one was coy about their hatred for the Tevinter Imperium. There had been no reason to be secretive about it; the Chantry shared and encouraged these negative feelings, and were happy to have their followers wary of the heretics in the north.

The shem have always hated the Imperium because of the magisters and the Black Divine, but the elves have their own reasons. The memories of slave trade in Ferelden are still fresh and bitter for many of the elvhen, and their hearts ache for the elves in the north who still endure their chains. The mere thought of a Tevinter existing in Ferelden terrifies them. Even though slavery cannot be practiced within Ferelden, no Fereldan authority has shown an interest in protecting elves from visiting Tevinters who gleefully take as many slaves back to their country as they please.

Alain is not surprised to discover that the Tevinters have taken advantage of the Alienage's plague to form a slave trade ring under Loghain's approval. The very idea of the Imperium actually trying to protect and cure the elves had sounded ridiculous to him, and he would have been more surprised to find a functional hospital filled with quarantined elves than he is to see his brethren in cages, waiting fearfully to be shipped across the sea into the magisters' hostile land.

It is almost amusing to Alain when the Archon tries to parley with him. The mage has eyes and can clearly see that Alain is an elf, one traveling with two others of the elvhen as well, but he still seems convinced that Alain's cooperation can be bought with evidence against Loghain. Alain doesn't even humor his bribes with an answer before lunging at him with his swords and commencing his fight in defense of those who will become slaves should he fail, remembering how pleasing it had been to send Vaughan into the afterworld without a single word of comfort to take with him.

As he struggles forward, buffeted by magic on every side as the mages defend their cargo, he once again remembers his mother's voice from the day she had begun his training with her secret bloodstained dagger. _I will teach you to fight,_ she had said before she began instructing him,_ but fighting is something you will never understand until you first learn to love. The moment when you can strike without fear and regret because there are people in front of you must at all costs protect... that is love... that is what it truly means to fight. That is when you will understand strength and understand your heart and will appreciate the reason why you__—__ you, Alain Tabris__— are here in this world._

He sees his father's face staring at him from inside one the cages, and he finally understands. This is what he can do to heal the wounds of guilt and confusion in his heart, and finally bring the bitter feelings of his childhood to a close. His prayer to the Maker, his disgust with Nesiara and his father for forcing her on him, his too-late rescue of Shianni, and his abandonment of his family for a better life they would never have could not be changed. He had left with those burdens, and had returned home still carrying them, still feeling as if he had done his family a bad turn in his selfishness. He had always resented himself, the Alienage, and even his father, but as he slices through the Archon's cloak, Alain feels the last of his loathing slipping away and being replaced with a sense of contentment. This is his home, his family, his history, and in spite of his former unhappiness here, he cannot help but love these things with all his heart and want to keep them safe from harm. He is here because of them, because they still belong to him, because he cannot imagine his life without this place to return to whenever he is lost or tired and in need of familiar and comforting sight. Even with the elements from the mages' staves tearing at his skin and burning his eyes, he cannot lose now. This is birthplace, his sacred ground, and not even the full force of the Tevinter Imperium can rip it from his grasp now that he has made his homecoming and at long last found peace with the earth beneath his feet.

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**Coming Soon: **With evidence against Loghain in place, the Wardens at last face their betrayer and determine the fate of Ferelden and its stolen throne.


	57. The Wardens: Landsmeet

**A/N: **This chapter is a wee bit longer than normal, so I got it out a little later than I meant to. Ah, well, you can't just churn out something about the Landsmeet, given how many things happen! Also, I will be going on vacation next week, so I don't know yet whether or not I'll get another chapter out, but it will be here eventually! As for now, enjoy the conclusion of Loghain's part in this tale!

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**Fifty-Seven. The Wardens: Landsmeet.**

The Wardens wake to a sunny morning, the sort of day where the air is still and the grass and trees stand motionless, like a painted landscape dreamed by an artist's brush. The citizens of Denerim are loud and active, the townsfolk gossiping in every corner as the nobles leave the inns one by one to make their way to the palace in the south. A handful of urchins are even taking bets on who will end up surviving the day, but for the Wardens such a matter is not in question. It is not that they will or will not win; it is that they _cannot _lose, and thus only one path stands in front of them if they wish for Ferelden's continued survival.

In their rooms, the Wardens don their robes and armor, all but Dulcia who is given one of Isolde's gowns for the occasion. She will be a Cousland again for the day, a noble rather than just a Warden with a Warden's interests. As a servant helps her lace up the back of her dress, she wonders what her parents would think if they could see her now. Their rebellious daughter, at the center of the Landsmeet with the fate of a crown within her hands. They had always called her their little pup, but now she has grown bigger, bigger and more dangerous than they could have ever dreamed.

The clamor outside continues, and the gossip shifts to the matter of which one of the contesting parties was responsible for what happened at Ostagar. Theories are tossed about back and forth; Loghain had the motive since he could receive a crown from the incident, but what if the Wardens were still angry about their days of exile Ferelden? Had Anora wanted her husband dead and arranged for her father's desertion? If the Wardens had betrayed the king, why were they dead and defiled by the darkspawn in Ostagar while Loghain was alive and well in Denerim?

Arlindria closes her eyes for a moment as she hugs her family shield tightly to her chest. She remembers the instance she had seen Loghain in Cailan's tent on the morning of the battle, and how a moment of fear had struck as she looked into his face and saw all of the resentment and hardness buried underneath, the burning ambition waiting to claw its way to the surface. And it had found its way, at such a price. The carnage at Ostagar had burned into her memory, even though she had never seen it first hand, having been scouting in the woods and left only to hear what was happening around her rather than to bear witness with her eyes. But her imagination had invented images of all that had happened. Duncan run through, captive soldiers run wild with the taint, and poor Cailan, the human king who had shone so brightly like the sun, with his light and radiance dimmed forever.

Beside her, Britomart clenches a hand over her heart. Her family had been held together as poorly as fragmented glass, and bitterness and poverty had kept them from joining to form one fluid and united surface. She would have never admitted it, but she had wanted something different when she came to the surface. She wanted a home filled with laughing people, people who though unrelated by blood shared a bond deeper than what she had endured with her mother and Leske and even Rica. She barely even knew the people who died, and can only recite a handful of their names after all this time, but the potential that had been lost, the family that could have formed if Loghain had not intervened sits heavily on her heart. Heroes should not go unmourned, their names forgotten by the memories and their bones scattered by the darkspawn. They had died for something, the same thing that she herself might die for, and the agent of their fall still holds a grip over the crown and still uses his power to make their name a curse throughout the land. There is no honor to what had happened, and what is still being done.

Arl Eamon rings to summon them, and they slowly make their way to the main hall. Alain tucks his blades into their sheaths, focusing single-mindedly on the enemy he will soon face. He knows there will be talking to come, accusations from the nobles and lies from Loghain, and he wishes they could skip over the petty dance and get right to the heart of the matter. There is nothing more that can be said that hasn't been said already, and only so many more lies they can bear to hear before the truth finds its way to the light as it always does.

Hannon twirls his bow idly. The shemlen on the throne is just another enemy, just one of many that has earned death and begs release from the point of an arrow. There will be many more like him, and not all of the evil in the world will be able to fall to justice as this shemlen will. It is an ancient cycle, one as old as the land itself. He will do his part, but he wonders how much of it will matter in the end. They can change the world as much as they like, but some things always find a way to stay the same.

The doors of the manor are thrown open, and they make their way through the streets. All eyes are upon them, wide with fear and awe. Alixire has always been sensitive to stares, but it doesn't bother her for once that they are the center of Denerim's notice. _The Wardens have been like mages here_, she realizes. _The odd ones out, the ones no one can hope to understand because powers like these are beyond the comprehension of those who have never touched the darkness inside of their hearts. It is no wonder Loghain hates us so much. We have done something just as twisted and unthinkable as he has, but we have not gone mad for it, and we have found the way back to ourselves._

"Are you prepared, Wardens?" Arl Eamon asks as they begin their march, silk and armor glistening brightly in the light of the sun. "Have you prepared for what is to come?"

No one says a word, even when he clearly waits for an answer. There is nothing left to think or say or do but go forward and let fate unfold as it will, to let what is meant to happen fall resolutely in to place.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Loghain is like a wild animal, poised to tear into his enemies with teeth and fang until nothing is left but scraps, and Arlindria cannot blame him; the atmosphere in the Landsmeet is already unfavorable. Nobles have had children tortured, loved ones lost at Ostagar, and resources drained into protecting their territory against the very same darkspawn that Loghain had promised to kill alongside their former king. There is a distinct air of resentment, and while some of it seems to be directed at the Wardens, the lion's share falls on the shoulders of the former hero, the man half mad with the need to have his hunger for power sated.

"Will you stand silently," he shouts at the crowd, "while Arl Eamon puts a puppet on the throne? Will you let these Wardens be the puppeteers of your king?" He approaches Alixire and stares harshly into her eyes. "Tell me, mage, how soon will the Orlesians come when you have their way?" He turns to Alain. "Or will you, in your ignorance, simply allow them to issue orders through your precious prince?"

"It's true, I know nothing of Orlais," Alain says quietly, looking annoyed at having been addressed so early. "I was under the impression that the darkspawn were our concern, and that the Orlesians remain in their own country at your orders."

"Will you ignore the darkspawn and wage war on Orlais?" Dulcia asks, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, perhaps that will work. They will die alongside us, and that will solve that problem."

"If you wish to discuss the Blight, _Lady Cousland, _I will oblige you. You are a mere child, one with more delusions of glory than knowledge to support them. Do we need fools like you to defeat the Blight? Your fellows claimed that they alone could end the threat, but they failed spectacularly at Ostagar. Will you do any better?"

"Yes, I witnessed the failure of Ostagar from the field hospital," Alixire calls out. "But it looked more like your flank of the army quitting the field from where I stood rather than any action on the part of the Wardens. But that issue has already been much debated. My companions have fresher concerns to lay at your feet."

"You have accused me of the murder of Rendon Howe, and yet you did nothing for the innocents tortured and killed under his rule, including my own family," Dulcia says, stepping forward. "Many of the families who lost loved ones to him are here this day. What say you to them, as the man who watch passively as your right hand committed murder?"

"And what of Arl Eamon himself?" Alixire asks. "You had him poisoned, and the blood mage you hired confessed that he was acting on your orders. I am sure that Chantry is terribly grateful you took their justice into your own hands."

"And they will be thrilled to learn you were engaging in elven slave trade with the Imperium," Alain agrees. "Ferelden has always feared sinking to their level, but I see that is no concern of yours."

The Grand Cleric rises to her feet. "Loghain, I do not like what I'm hearing. The crown has no business interfering in Chantry matters, especially not for such purposes. There will be inquisitions on these infractions, regardless of what happens today."

"The Maker will judge me for whatever sins I carry on my conscience, woman. And these Wardens who pretend to be so self-righteous hardly have clean souls themselves. Soldiers who escaped the massacre in the Arl of Denerim's estate proved that the Wardens were involved in a plot to kidnap my daughter, our queen, for the sake of their political ambitions. Even now they are holding her hostage in Eamon's estate!"

"I will speak for myself, Father."

The lords and ladies of the Landsmeet turn to the palace doors, where Anora has emerged dressed in her court finery. She strides into the hall, looking every inch a queen, although to Dulcia's eyes there is an element in her too reminiscent of her father for her liking.

"Men and women of Ferelden, heed my words. My father is no longer the man you once knew. This man betrayed our king and withdrew his troops while the men who fought bravely against the darkspawn perished. This man seized my husband's throne and locked me away before I could reveal his treachery. I would have been killed by Arl Howe, if not for Lady Cousland and her companions."

"She speaks the truth on this occasion," Dulcia says, nodding to Anora. "We found her locked in a room inside the Arl of Denerim's estate when we were directed by her maid."

"The Wardens have poisoned even you, Anora?" Loghain says, looking genuinely as if he believes in the lies he is spouting and that she is the deluded one. "I wanted to protect you from this."

"Fine job you did of it," Hannon mutters, playing with his bow. "Can we get on with it now?"

Loghain obliges him, beginning his closing speech. "My lord and ladies! Our land has been threatened before, and lost and won times beyond counting. We will never be concoquered for as long as we stand strong and united. Join with me now, and we will defeat the Blight itself!"

"The Wardens are an order designed to fight the Blight, and in history, they have never failed," a voice from somewhere in the back of the room calls out. "We will stand for the Wardens!"

"The Wardens! Alistair is the rightful king!"

"We will throw our lot with the Wardens, Maker help us!"

"Loghain has delivered us, and he will deliver us again!"

"I will see my family and the Wardens avenged! We stand with Alistair!"

"And there you have it," Dulcia says, extending a hand to Loghain. "Will you surrender?"

Loghain slaps her hand away, gritting his teeth. "Traitors! Which of you stood against the Orlesians when they burned your fields and raped your wives? None of you deserve a say in what happens here. None of you have spilled blood for your land in the way I have! How dare you judge me?"

He pulls out his sword and take a step towards Dulcia, calling for his men to back him up. Dulcia steps away, lifting the hem of her skirt so she does not trip, but Alistair steps out in front of her before Loghain can get any closer.

"You are the only traitor here," he snarls, lunging with his sword. "We'll see you dead for what you did to our order."

"For Duncan!" Alixire yells, releasing a ball fire from her staff and launching it towards Loghain's group of guards.

"For our brethren!" Alain joins, lifting his blades.

"For Cailan!" Arlindria readies her shield and charges forward.

"Rolf, my sword!" Dulcia yells to her Mabari. Darting from between a bewildered nobleman and woman, he delivers it at her feet before he goes to join the fray himself. Dulcia unsheathes it and cuts the fabric of her skirt to free her movement, though she knows she will be punished for this act later, when Isolde figures out what she's done.

The battle between the two factions is brutal. Loghain, most likely realizing he has very little left to lose, assaults them with the full force of his strength, and the Wardens fight back with equal fervor, relying on the fluidity they'd developed in all of their months together. Britomart and Hannon dart in and out between palace pillars, striking whenever they have an open shot, and Dulcia, Alain, and Arlindria press forward, keeping the bulk of the soldiers engaged while Alixire picks away at the more distant foes from the back. Alistair concentrates the majority of his attacks on Loghain with support from the others when needed, but he is infuriated enough to perform ably on his own, relying on his own strength and powers as Anora once believed him to be incapable of.

_This_, Dulcia thinks to herself as she runs her sword through the chest of one Loghain's fighters, _this is the proof I need that he is ready. There is no fear in his eyes, no hesitance. He has learned how to be brave, and how to fight for the honor he most wants to protect._

Suddenly, the room explodes in a cloud of haze as Alixire conjures a winter storm with her staff, and in the moment of confusion, Alistair lunges forward and drives his blade deep into Loghain's shoulder. The teyrn cries out and drops to his knees, blood pouring from his wound and on to the floor in a pool of scarlet.

"Enough!" he gasps, clutching his wound. "I underestimated you, son of Maric. I thought you and your fellows were like Cailan, children playing at war. I was wrong. There is a strength I see... in each of you... I have not seen since... Maric died. I yield."

"Yield? I think not!" Alistair lifts his sword, preparing to deliver a finishing blow.

"A moment!" The Warden who had been imprisoned in Howe's estate, Riordan, steps forward. "There is another option. Loghain is a warrior of great reknown, and would be an able fighter for our cause. Have him undergo the Joining and see if we can make use of him. You seven are the only Wardens in Ferelden excepting me, and there are... compelling... reasons to have as many Wardens as possible when facing the Archdemon."

"Absolutely not!" Alistair protests, clenching his teeth. "This man once attempted to destroy our order, and hunted us survivors down like animals. He spits in the very face of what it means to be a Grey Warden. I will not allow it."

"Lady Cousland, speak sense to him," Anora says sharply, looking beseechingly toward her father.

"I will not. Alistair has the right of it, and it is not my place to order him about. I am sure my companions agree."

"I saw in your eyes that you were plotting this from the beginning, Loghain," Arlindria says. "The king was your family. Your daughter joined his House, and he became your son, so you have made yourself a kinslayer. You have no remorse for that sin, and we will not be able to reform you. There is nothing more to be done."

"We are sufficient for the Archdemon," Alain adds. "Whatever challenge comes, we will face it. These blades have killed all manner of things, and will kill more."

"You can't do this!" Anora cries, her lips trembling just slightly. "My father was wrong, but he is a hero to these people."

"He was once, but good deeds can be usurped by evil. Those who were tortured or who were sold to the Imperium would sooner remember what happened these last months than they would remember his victory at River Dane."

"Hush, Anora. It's over." Loghain reaches out a hand to stroke his daughter's cheek.

"Stop treating me like a child, Father. This is serious."

"Daughters never grow up, Anora. They remain six years old with pig tails and skinned knees forever. I do have a last favor to ask." He stumbles to his feet and kneels down again in front of Arlindria. "I acknowledged you that day we met for a reason. I think I knew from that very moment that you knew what I was... what I was capable of doing. I would... I would like you to be the one to do it."

"Your sins against Alistair are greater. He has more right."

"Perhaps. But a warrior likes to be taken down by the person he's recognized as an equal, even though I now see you may not be the only one among your number who is so." He smiles sadly, bowing his head. "Besides... I must apologize for that poster with your picture. You are beautiful... it was a crime against you, what my description of you created."

Arlindria returns his smile. "Fair enough. Anora, please step away."

"Lady Aeducan, please..."

"I'm sorry, but I will do as your father wishes."

Everyone holds their breath collectively as Arlindria runs a blade against his throat, but she is swift and clean, and does her best to shield the blood from Anora's eyes. She is not fond of the queen, but she understands from experience how hard it is to lose a father to a situation outside of your control, even though her own father had been less deserving of his fate than Loghain. All the same, she cannot help but feel a bit sorry. There had been a good man in there somewhere, buried beneath the greed and resentment that had gone feral, but the way he had murdered that side of himself for the supposed sake of Ferelden turned her heart against him even so.

When the job is finished, she slowly steps away, clearing her throat. "I hate to sound terribly pragmatic, but would someone see his body to the chapel? We must keep Anora and Alistair here until the issue of the crown is decided."

"Is it not decided already?" Eamon asks as two banns step forward to receive Loghain's body. "Alistair was clearly the victor of this conflict."

"The Wardens were, not your so-called prince," Anora protests, brushing the moisture from her eyes. "And I asked Lady Cousland to represent the wishes of the Wardens should they defeat my father."

"And I will." Dulcia steps forward, ignoring the titters of the noblewomen looking at her ripped dress. "But first, I have a question for Anora."

"Very well, what is it?"

"Have you thought any more about what I asked you when we spoke?"

"What you asked me? You asked me a number of things, Lady Cousland, and most of them seemed to be rhetorical. If you wanted something brought under my consideration, you should have made it more clear."

"I see." Dulcia turns to the members of the Landsmeet and raises her hand. "When Anora asked me to moderate this argument, I wondered to myself whether it was power and a firm hand we needed in Ferelden, or heart and tolerance. Of course, at that time I thought it we could only have one or the other, with Anora being the former and Alistair being the latter. Now I see I was wrong. One candidate is capable of having each of these things, and he proved it before each of you today. Alistair was once crushed by the deaths of the Wardens, and was incapable of acting correctly in light of his feeling of worthlessness and regret at having survived. I no longer see that man in front of me today. The Alisair I see is a strong man, a man with things he loves enough to give himself wholly to protect at any cost and seek happiness for. The Alistair I see is the only man genuine and kind enough for me to love, and if it pleases the ladies and lords of the Landsmeet, I would be proud to stand at his side for the rest of my life as his wife and your queen."

"You would?" Alistair yelps, looking a bit dazed now that his anger has subsided. "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I've ever been, my love."

"Well, that's good. But you should have let me do the honors. I was planning on it, you know. I had this whole romantic ordeal mapped in my head, and then you had to go and do it like that!"

"I'm sorry. I will atone, I promise."

"Atonement is exactly what you need, my lady," Anora says coolly. "I see now that your words aren't worth their weight in gold."

"I only swore to consider the matter and act according to what I felt was correct. And I have. Surely there is nothing to object to. He will make a fine king. Even you can see he has the virtue you thought he lacked."

"She has made her decision," Alistair says firmly. "Anora, do not despair just yet. I mean to fight the Archdemon alongside my betrothed and our company, and if I die doing so, you are the natural candidate for the throne. In spite of what happened when your father took over, you were a good queen for Cailan. If I can honor that should I fall in battle, I will."

"Very well. Maker forgive me, but I may pray to the heavens you do not live to see the victory of your companions."

"And I will pray all the more that he will live, and live to be a great king," Dulcia concludes.

With a smile, Alistair takes her hand and steps forward. The Landsmeet erupts in cheers as he walks among them, crying out boldly against the darkspawn and the Blight and promising a victory and a strong period of rebuilding in the lost territories in the south. The Wardens watch as he makes his way among his people, his words at first uncertain, but growing stronger and stronger with time.

_Maybe he can change things, after all, _they think, setting aside their blood stained weapons and at last allow themselves to relax and enjoy the celebration. _Maybe at last now the land can finally begin to heal_.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **Even with the political situation under control, not everything is settled. When a ghost from Zevran's past comes looking for blood, Alain must decide for himself what to do with the captive assassin he does not wish to let go.


	58. Alain: Heart of the Matter

**A/N: **Wow, we're moving right along into final battle territory! The Archdemon is nigh, but the Wardens still don't have any idea of the potential sacrifice needed to defeat the Blight. As for now, Taliesin is showing up (a little late, I know, but I wanted to get Loghain out of the way before dealing with this) to force Zevran into a tough decision. Enjoy!

0o0o0o0o

**Fifty-Eight. Alain: Heart of the Matter.**

"You would think," Zevran says, leaning his head against Alain's shoulder as they make their way to the camp from the tavern, "that after all this time, you would have at least won against someone at Wicked Grace, my dear Warden."

"I think maybe I had too much to drink."

"Make excuses all you want, but before you were even served you had already lost to five people, one of them being the bartender's twelve year-old daughter. I can't help but wonder what we are to do with you, silly man."

"What does it matter? I am good at other things besides cards."

Zevran smiles wickedly. "That you are. That you are."

"I meant fighting," Alain mutters, his cheeks flushing. Zevran simply laughs and stumbles a bit, forcing Alain to reach out and hold him steady. It perhaps hadn't been the best idea for them to be drinking the day before they were to leave for Redcliffe, but Zevran had started going on about how they had no idea whether or not they would get out alive, and Alain couldn't help feeling a bit unsettled, as if everything he holds precious now is standing on precarious ground that is ready to fall out beneath him. He has become more confident in his abilities to defend the things that matter to him thanks to his triumph in the Alienage, but Zevran has always been an uncertain element, something liable to come and go as he pleases rather than staying safely in Alain's sight.

He feels somewhat better now with both the alcohol coursing through him and Zevran pressed firmly against his side. _This moment now is what is important, _he reminds himself. _This feeling is the thing you need to hold onto. Even if everything else is lost, this at least will stay._

"Your mistress the night sky is looking lovely tonight," Zevran says, his words muffled by Alain's sleeve. "Won't you speak to her again?"

"I don't really need to speak to her for her to know, do I? She sees everything up there. And the moon is bright enough to shed light for her."

Zevran pulls away slightly. "It is quiet, my Warden. Almost uncomfortably so."

"Most people are staying inside for fear of the darkspawn. They have begun to move again."

"Yes, but there should be people here celebrating on Alistair's behalf, or at least gossiping about the recent events in Denerim. Why is it so still?"

Alain falls silent, listening for sounds in the distance. The leaves of the trees are rustling, and every now and then the wind howls as it picks up speed. From behind the trees, he can just faintly hear the sound of stifled breath, but whether it is an animal or a human predator he cannot determine.

"I think we are being followed," he says loudly enough for the hidden presence to hear him. If they are shem, there is a chance they will reveal themselves if they know their location is suspected. He removes his blades and gestures for Zevran to follow suit.

"Are you sure that is what you wish to do, Grey Warden?" a voice comes from within the branches of one of the trees. Alain looks up to find a shem looking smugly down at them, his own blade withdrawn and catching the moonlight. "What stance could two drunks hope to make against us?"

Zevran immediately straightens up and tightens his grip on his daggers. "Taliesin," he hisses, the unsteadiness of his voice no longer apparent as he speaks.

"The Crows, once again, send their regards," Taliesin says, dropping from his perch on the tree. "How good to see you, Zevran."

"Save your pretty words. Were you sent, or did you volunteer for the job? Surely you know by now what comes of meddling with the Wardens."

"And that is exactly why I volunteered. When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I needed to see this alluring Warden for myself. He does not disappoint, does he?"

"Keep your eyes to yourself. I am the one you have business with."

"So be it. As handsome as your new toy is, I think it's about time you should be getting bored with him. If you return with me, Zevran, I will make sure you are pardoned and welcomed back into the Crows. This whole diversion of yours will be forgotten." Taliesin smiles pityingly down at Alain. "And if you come quietly, I may very well be generous and spare his life. Loghain is dead, and the Wardens are needed back in the south, I am told. But should you resist, I'm afraid things will have to get... messy."

"They will get messy regardless," Alain says, placing a fist over his heart. "I would sooner have you kill me then watch silently as Zevran returns to the side of the people who abused him in the past."

Zevran steps out in front of Alain. "And I am not about to let that happen. I am sorry, my friend. The answer is 'no'. I will not come back, and you should have stayed in Antiva."

"I see. Well, then." Taliesin snaps his fingers, and men begin streaming from behind the trees, their weapons at the ready. "You will both regret that you ever touched a drop of drink and left your companions tonight, my friends. It will be your death. Such a pity."

"It will only be a weakness if I make it one," Alain says softly. "But unfortunately for you, tonight the eyes of my mother and the one I hold dearest are upon me. I will not shame myself in front of them."

As the Crows circle him, Alain remembers the moment he first faced them, back when Zevran was the enemy in front of him. _Your life belongs to me now, _he had whispered to Zevran when he'd taken him down, even though he knew better than anyone that life wasn't something one could play master over. What had he really wanted at that time? _Maybe I knew it all along, _Alain realizes, _that it was love from the very beginning. It was always a feeling too strong for me to understand, but now... now that I understand, I cannot let him be harmed. How can I hope to protect Ferelden if I cannot even protect the precious treasure that has been entrusted to me?_

He lifts his blade, a new fire burning within him. It doesn't matter how many men Taliesin has brought to kill him or how strong Taliesin himself is. He cannot die here, not now, not with so much at stake. He had left the Alienage with no idea of who he was or what he was meant for, and during this journey he had at long last found the answer, an answer too dear and beloved to let die now, not when there was so much still yet to live for, so many more beautiful moments to experience and treasure with whatever time is left to them both.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"I..." Zevran says, staring at the carnage around Alain's feet. "You..."

"I'm sorry. This is unsightly."

"No, no, not that. It's just..." He looks up into Alain's eyes in wonder. "You _killed _him. He was one of the best assassins in the Crows, and you..." He shakes his head, clearing his throat. "I guess I should not be so surprised, considering how often I have seen you in battle. But still, even I thought we would not be able to survive. Even as strong as you are, there is only so much you can do."

"For you, I think I could do anything," Alain says honestly.

Zevran's mouth opens and shuts again in surprise. "How... how can you say that?" he says, clenching his hands. "How can you be so certain?" He shakes his head, dismissing his thoughts. "Never mind that. It seems your actions have set me free from that particular burden. Now all that remains is to figure out what you would have me do now that he's gone."

"What do you mean?"

"I owed you a debt, my Warden. When it was between facing the Crows and going with you, I let you determine my fate to repay that debt. And now that I have served my time and proven that I will not betray you, isn't our contract complete? Am I not free to do as I wish now if you let me go?"

Alain at stares him, biting his lip to hide his true expression. "Of course. You are your own person, and you can do as you like if it will make you happy. If it is what you really want. But I..."

Zevran clears his throat. "But?"

"As someone... as someone whose heart loves you above all other things, I feel bound to tell you that having you leave is not something I want. You may do as your own heart desires, but my heart will not change."

Zevran looks quietly into his eyes for a long moment before answering. "I am really not certain what to say right now. An assassin has every reason not to get involved with sentiment for obvious reasons. Just look around you." He gestures to the bodies of the Crows littered in the woods, Taliesin's stiffening face splattered with both his blood and Alain's. "This is the kind of life I live, where anyone may die at any moment. It is wrong and reckless to be attached to one person or thing when so much is on the line. We should only take pleasures when they are free and easy, and be able to leave them behind without a second thought whenever necessary. It was supposed to be the same between us, Alain. You knew this."

"Yes. And you knew how I felt, too."

"I did, but I have enough control over myself to act according to my wishes rather than yours. But all the same, it seems I could not help but wonder. I have rarely felt so strong a need to treasure someone as I do now with you."

"Then," Alain says softly, "is it possible you may also feel the same? That what you wish is also to stay?"

"I don't know. How does one become certain of such a thing? All I understand is the illusion of love, and even still, I was trained to keep my heart cold so nothing would matter but the kill. But ever since you saved me, I have been feeling these odd and foolish things. When anyone else even looks at you too long, I feel angry, and just the thought of you doing these things with someone else if I leave you makes me..." He trails off with a harsh groan. "Do you understand me at all?"

"I have felt this way for a long time now. And if this means you will not leave my side, I could not be happier. Is that so bad a thing?"

"No... no, perhaps not. That is enough for me. I have been concerned for some time, and the fact that you killed Taliesin on my behalf made me all the more troubled, but I think I will be better now. Much better."

"Then can we go back? It has been a long night, and I would like to be in our tent and have a moment of peace before we begin to march tomorrow."

"Yes, that is also what I want." Zevran takes Alain's arm again, looking up at the sky before they begin to make their way back out of the woods. "You know something? Even though the final battle is coming, I think we may be just fine."

"You do?"

"Of course, my Grey Warden. There is something out there watching out for you, I'm certain of it. And even if there isn't, you have me beside you to keep an eye on your back."

"And you will stay with me, right?"

"For as long as you wish. No matter what will come."

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up:** Riordan shares the secret behind the Archdemon's defeat, and when Morrigan comes up with an alternative approach for Hannon, the Warden must decide which risks they are willing to take.


	59. The Wardens: Life or Death

**A/N: **Next chapter will be the final battle... my goodness, are we there at last? But before the Archdemon can be faced, our Wardens need to make a tough decision that will play a huge role in their fates in the conflict to come. I've been mostly following the actions I took during my Dulcia playthrough, but I always have a moment of uncertainty when deciding what to do with Morrigan's offer, although achievements tend to play a role in what I end up picking. I hope you enjoy!

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**Fifty-Nine. The Wardens: Life or Death.**

By time they reach Redcliffe, it is clear that they have come too late. The village is mostly in ruins, and those who encountered the darkspawn are beyond their help. The survivors are already sequestered safely in the castle, and the scattered remains of the darkspawn themselves are easily disposed of without the bulk of the horde to support them.

"They are en route to Denerim," Riordan sighs, pacing through the main hall where he has assembled the Wardens and Arl Eamon. "Even if we leave this very moment, we will be hard pressed to reach them before damage is done."

"Alistair and I ordered the city guard and capital forces to be at the ready before we departed, and Anora remains to deploy them if need be," Dulcia says. "Will that not be enough to keep them at bay until we can deploy our own armies and meet them?"

"It might, but should the Archdemon make an appearance, I fear there is little hope for them. We must deploy our forces at the earliest possible hour, but even then..."

"We will have the strength of Orzammar, the Dalish, the Circle Tower, and Redcliffe at our sides," Arlindria says firmly. "That is not something to dismiss."

"Even if we had the whole of Ferelden on our side, it means nothing if we do not have time. And no matter what happens, the Wardens _must _be there when the Archdemon strikes. That is the most important thing."

"In that case, I will set the men to packing and preparing Redcliffe to march," Eamon says, rising to his feet. "I will take my leave of you for the moment, Wardens."

"Very well. I have need to discuss the matter with them privately, in any case. I will join you when I am finished, your grace."

Riordan turns to the Wardens once Arl Eamon has quit the room, a pained look on his face. "Sit, my friends. What I have to say is something that will be difficult to hear."

"Even more difficult than what we have already undergone?" Britomart asks warily, remaining on her feet. "I can hardly believe it."

"It is worse, perhaps. I have the feeling that Duncan had little time to tell you the exact reason why Wardens are needed to end the Blight. Am I correct?"

"I always assumed it had something to do with our taint," Alistair guesses. "It is the one thing that makes us different from any other army, at the very least."

"You are on the right track. The Archdemon becomes what it is due to the taint. What was once an Old God is transformed into a vessel carrying the will of the darkspawn that manifests in its soul. When its body is destroyed, the soul must seek another vessel similar to the one it lost, and thus travels to a body filled with the taint. If this body is a darkspawn, the Archdemon will continue to fight and slaughter with all its strength. Only by finding the body of a Grey Warden can the be Archdemon destroyed. It cannot exist within a human form, or manipulate a heart it does not understand."

"I can't imagine that becoming the vessel in which the Archdemon is destroyed is particularly safe," Hannon says with a grimace. "If Tamlen and I were destroyed merely by putting hands on a tainted object, having a purely tainted being inside of its body surely would mean the vessel would also die."

"Yes, and that is why a Warden must be the one to slay the Archdemon, and die for it." Riordan bows his head solemnly. "The Blight will never end unless one of us sacrifices ourselves for the sake of our country."

No one says anything for a long time. Hannon and Alain stare intensely at their hands, while Dulcia rises to her feet and begins pacing. Alixire rubs her head, looking more confused than anything else, and Alistair's jaw clenches tightly, his eyes following Dulcia in her circuit around the room. Even their movements and breathing are silent and muffled, as if death itself has descended upon the room to observe their reaction to his impending threat.

Arlindria slowly stands up from her seat. "I will do it," she says, her voice ringing jarringly through the quiet room. "I will be the one out of us to make the sacrifice."

"And what gives you the right to make that decision over the rest of us?" Britomart snaps, grinding her fist into her palm. "What makes you more deserving, when we are all invested in this equally?"

"I always felt this was a cause I would gladly give my life for. And now that I no longer am bound as a Princess of Orzammar, I—"

"Do not use such a feeble excuse, my lady. We have all consented to die for this, not only you. And would you be so quick to deny Orzammar the heart that loves it best, just because you are no longer Princess? You have just as many reasons to live as I do, so do not be so quick to rush towards death as if you are the only one who has embraced the idea of it."

"But when the safety of Ferelden is in jeopardy, what meaning does my life have greater than giving it to save those who are in danger?"

"That doesn't make it all right for you to decide to die so easily!" Alixire suddenly yells, rising to her feet so quickly that her chair overturns. "Yes, one of us will have to die. Perhaps it will even be me. But even so, it is not fine to be so content with it! You made a promise to Orzammar, Lady Aeducan, that you would be there to watch over it if it ever needed you. And I... I made a promise to return to Cullen's side and not leave it again. If I must give my life to the Archdemon then I must, but that doesn't mean I have to want to die or run towards it happily. How can I be happy when I know the one I love the most will grieve?"

Arlindria shakes her head. "I am the one out of you who has no lover to disappoint, so it would be better if it was me."

"Lover or no, you would not go unmourned. You are dear to us like a sister, my lady, and we would all cry if we lost you. If you must break our hearts, please do not do so intentionally. Fight against that fate with all your heart, even if you know you must accept it for the sake of Ferelden."

"Miss Amell is right to suggest restraint, my lady," Riordan says quietly. "There is honor in death, but no honor in deciding upon it until the very moment when all other paths are lost. That is why we die fighting against darkspawn, battling against death until it comes at its proper time. And among the Wardens, it is practice for the oldest among us to make the sacrifice because our bones are already being pulled towards our Calling, so it is only fitting that I make the blow if I can. If not, then either the earliest Joined among you should try, or else the person best able to reach the Archdemon when the moment comes."

"I was the next to undergo the Joining," Alistair says. "I will accept, if you should fail."

"I will not allow it," Dulcia protests. "You are king of Ferelden, and the most essential to the rebuilding of our country after this war. I was the first to drink of the cup among the remains of our group, so I will go in your stead if it is necessary."

"And you think I would let that happen?"

"I know it would sadden you, but I... it seems sadness will be inevitable for all of us. It will come in one form or another, no matter how much we debate."

"That is enough," Riordan interrupts. "What will come on the battlefield will come, and there is nothing more we can do or say than what must be said and done. _In death, sacrifice_. Nothing more, nothing less. Please do not dwell on it further, and simply do your duty when the time comes. Those who survive will pick up the pieces, even in their grief. That is the way of the world, the way of battle." He sighs and regards them sadly. "Go to rest, my brothers and sisters. We will leave as soon as we may, and you will need a moment of sleep before we march. The battle will be long and harsh, and another chance to rest will be long in coming."

The Wardens silently rise to their feet. He is right; there is nothing more to say or do. All the talk in the world won't change how they act in the heat of the moment in battle, and even if they must come to terms with death, it will not change the amount of things they have to lose should they be the ones to die.

As Hannon leaves the room, Alain pulls him aside. "You had very little to say on the subject," he notes softly, staring into his eyes with a tight expression. "Do you feel the same as I do over all this?"

"You didn't say very much either, City Boy," Hannon answers flatly. "How am I to know how you feel?"

"I feel... I felt at that moment that it would be okay if I was the one to die."

"Did you?"

"Yes, and I think maybe you did, too. We've both faced death before, you through the taint, and I through execution. When you've already accepted it once, it isn't as difficult to do it again. It's like returning to an old friend... finding something that you once lost."

"Hmm."

"But I... I am not the same as I was when I first decided to die for Shianni's sake. I have so many more things to hold on to now, and my better judgment tells me I should not throw aside the things that cannot be replaced. I agree with Alixire. I should not want to die. And neither should you."

"Do you think I am at risk for sacrificing myself, City Boy?"

"I'm not certain. But if you are, I just wanted you to know that you too have things that you should not want to abandon. And that she cares for you more than you think she does."

Hannon glances into his room. Morrigan is waiting for him by the fire, her face illuminated from the shadows by the glow of the flame. _If I died, I wonder what you would think_, he muses to himself. _Would it be just the passing of another foolish man, or would you shed a tear for me, even if it was only one?_

"Maybe she does," Hannon says, giving Alain a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. "But is that enough of a reason, in the end?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Britomart glares broodingly at Leliana as she brushes out the tangles in her hair and prepares herself for bed. _I liked her for being delicate_, she thinks bitterly, burying her face in her hands in exhaustion, _but will it be too much for her if I tell her what might happen? And will she forgive me if I spare her the truth?_

"Are you worried?" Leliana asks, reaching over to give Britomart's long hair a soothing stroke. "I have faith in you, you know. Surely, it will all be well when it is finished."

"We can only hope."

"Yes, and pray to the Maker that not too many things in His beautiful world are harmed in this conflict." She rests her head on Britomart's shoulder. "What will you do, when this is finished?"

"I shouldn't make plans if I cannot be sure I can keep them."

"Oh? Would it be so terribly troublesome for you to have something to give you more reason to make it out of the battle alive?"

"Yes. At this point, it would be more troublesome than you even know."

Hannon pokes his head into the room. "Pardon me, Da'mi, but I need to borrow you for a moment. There is something I must broach with the Wardens."

"Has something new come up in the half-hour since I saw you last?"

"Yes. Something very, very important. The others are already gathered in Asha'nan's room. Please, let's go meet them."

"Very well, but this better be worth my time. Don't bother staying up for me, Leliana. You should rest before we march, even if I cannot."

Hannon drags Britomart through the halls to Dulcia's quarters, then unceremoniously shoves her into a seat. The rest of the Wardens are talking amongst themselves, looking as confused as she feels.

"What's this about, Hannon?" Alixire asks, rubbing her eyes. "I was already asleep when you came to find me."

"Yes, and I thought we agreed we'd said enough on the subject for the night?" Arlindria adds.

"My apologies lethallin, Princess Da'len. But what I have to say could be a matter of life or death. Emma lath has requested I lie with her tonight."

Alistair begins to choke. "I don't need to hear about this. In fact, I really, really don't want you to say anything further."

"It is not about that," Hannon says, sounding more solemn than they are used to hearing him. "She has made a proposition for us that may influence what happens with the Archdemon in the battle in the Denerim."

Hannon settles down among them and begins detailing Morrigan's offer, describing the child she wishes him to give her, and of the implications of having an Old God's soul in the body of a human being with the potential not to be destroyed by it. Through his narrative, Hannon keeps his face impassive, so the others have little idea of how he feels about the matter one way or another.

"Her cause means that we all might live the day, even the elder shemlen," Hannon concludes, folding his hands. "But I thought I would have the issue discussed rather than deciding for myself. I have a poor history in dealing wisely with ancient magics."

"But can such a matter be decided with a discussion and vote?" Dulcia asks, wrinkling her brow. "It is such a risk. Morrigan may claim she understands what her offer means and what result the ritual will have, but how can she possibly?"

"She is the daughter of that crazy Flemeth," Britomart reminds her. "That woman may talk in circles, but I suppose she has knowledge enough to determine these things."

"It stinks of forbidden magic to me," Alixire interjects. "I never dare to play around with a child's life at such a price. Especially if the child will be Hannon's. Why should we force his flesh and blood to grow up to be a pawn just to satisfy our selfish desire to live?"

"Once again, this discussion will go nowhere if we continue to debate these fine points that have no sound answer," Arlindria says. "Let us state our opinion one by one, and then the majority vote will win. And after that, we will move forward and do our duty as we've always intended to."

"Fair enough," Hannon agrees. "Princeling, you speak first."

"I am against this," Alistair says. "Not only does it most assuredly involve taboo magic, but it allows us to take the easy way out of our obligations. We have it in our powers to defeat the Archdemon, and even though the cost is high, we ought to do as we were meant to do."

"Asha'nan?"

"I do agree with Alistair, but... every time I close my eyes, I see him sacrificing himself against my wishes, and allowing Ferelden to fall back into apathetic hands. As long as there is that risk, I do not think I can rest happily. It is selfish and wrong of me to use such a reason, but I do not care. I would accept Morrigan's offer."

"Lethallin? Although I can already guess what you will say."

Alixire purses her lips. "I won't accept the use of such magic. I am sorry. The Wardens know that one of us will have to die, and when we don't, there will be questions. And when it is learned that magic was involved, it will only worsen things for the mages. I would like you to decline."

"City Boy?"

"I will be selfish. It is not my wish to lose anyone present here, so I will ask you to accept."

"Da'mi?"

"It matters little to me. I do not trust in magic, but it is true that any of you dying would be bothersome for me. Accept if you like."

"And Princess Da'len?"

"I would rather you didn't. It's not only the magic aspect of it... it just doesn't seem right to me. When we became Wardens, we accepted our death in the field of battle, and though we didn't know it at the time, we accepted _this. _I will be happy to have each of us survive, but will be grieved that we didn't fight as Grey Wardens in the way we should have."

"So it is three yes and three no in this case," Hannon sighs. "I suppose it will be up to me, after all."

"Which is fitting, since the child will be yours," Dulcia says. "Even if she never lets you see it, it will still be part of you."

"And that is why I will not accept the terms as she expressed them. If she means to bear this child and yet no longer be a part of my life, that is not acceptable. I will stay at her side."

"I doubt she will let you."

"It doesn't matter. I mean to do it all the same."

"So you will accept having the child, then?" Alistair asks.

"With a small measure of misgiving, yes. But the most important thing is that I trust in Asha'belannar, and I trust in emma lath. It is true that Asha'belannar meant to be the one to raise the child herself, but there must have been some value to her intentions, value that emma lath means to continue on her own. I will put what faith I have in that, and assure that Ferelden holds onto every last Warden in this time of trouble." Hannon rises back to his feet. "My apologies to Princeling, Princess Da'len, and lethallin. I understand your concerns, but she has placed a puzzle in front of me, and I must discover its path until the end."

Alixire sighs. "Very well. I do not overly trust Flemeth or Morrigan, but I do trust in you. If something goes amiss, you will figure out what must be done. And if you don't... well, we'll teach you a lesson about gambling with Ferelden's safety, won't we?"

"I can live with that." His eyes seek Alain's and a smile at last returns to his lips. "Because I want to live, after all. That's reason enough."

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**Coming Up: **The Wardens arrive in Denerim for the showdown of a lifetime! Will they be able to face the Archdemon unscathed, and whose weapon will end the Blight once and for all?


	60. Arlindria: Righteous Blow

**A/N: **The end of this chapter marks a return to the same format where we started, with each character getting a wrap up similar to their origin. When I started writing this, I really had no idea how long it would take me to get to this point, but I am so glad I started on the journey, and I'm so excited to finally tie up my heroes' individual tales. But before I get too ahead of myself, there is kind of a really big archdemon in the way right now, and there's no guarantee that everyone will make it through with all of their pieces intact. Enjoy!

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**Sixty. Arlindria: Righteous Blow.**

Denerim is still holding together when they reach the city gates— just barely, but enough to give them hope. The civilians have been evacuated by the city guard, but many of their houses have been lost, sent up in walls of flame. Arlindria bows her head for a moment before readying her weapons and charging into the skirmish. No matter what they do today, rebuilding will still be a long and arduous journey for the people of Ferelden. Much of what they have lost will never be replaced, even years after the Blight is concluded. _But as long as they have their lives, everything else is a small price to pay, _she reminds herself as she drives her blade through the invading darkspawn. _They will regain nothing if they lose themselves._

"Any sign of the Archdemon?" Arlindria calls out to a guard during a break in the fighting.

"It's been flying overhead to the south, Warden. The majority of the fires you see were started by its breath."

"Has anyone engaged it yet?"

"We dare not without word from you or your comrades. And it has only descended to our reach once or twice since appearing."

"Thank you for your report, guard." Arlindria hurries ahead to where Riordan is overseeing the deployment of Redcliffe's forces. "The Archdemon has entered the battle, but has done little else other than start the fires around the city," she tells him, wiping away a smudge of blood from her cheek. "What course of action do you advise?"

"We should try to ground it on top of Fort Drakon where we can engage it directly. I will take care of the leg work, if the rest of you handle disposing of the Archdemon's two generals. If both of these tasks are completed, we will be able to focus singlehandedly on the greatest threat when the time comes."

"Surely a few of us may join you in leading the Archdemon to Drakon. There are seven other Wardens to go around, after all. Have three of us go after each general, and allow me to accompany you to the Archdemon. There should be backup in case something should happen to one of us."

Riordan frowns grimly. "If that as your wish, my lady. But you must be prepared for anything at the front lines. You avoided the massacre of Ostagar, but we cannot assume we will be so lucky here."

"I understand."

"In that case, gather your brethren. We will need to prepare to enter further into the city."

When all of the Wardens and their other companions are brought together, Riordan stands among them and unfolds the battle map of Denerim he has been entrusted with. "Unfortunately, the darkspawn have already dealt a heavy blow to the city gates," he begins, pointing out their position on the field. "It would be unwise of us to pull too many of our troops away at such an early stage. Arlindria has suggested we send two teams of Wardens after the generals, and she has volunteered to join me in the initial attack of the Archdemon. That leaves Sten, Oghren, Zevran, Leliana, Wynne, and Morrigan as the ideal group to stay behind and hold the gates."

"You can't expect us to go along with that," Leliana protests, glancing in alarm at Britomart. "We joined this army to be at their sides for this moment."

"We cannot all abandon the post here," Alain points out. "And it would be unwise to leave a single Warden behind."

"So you'll rush off to be the hero with the rest of us powerless to step in should anything befall you?" Zevran snaps, looking angrier than anyone has ever seen him. "We would storm the Black City itself if you asked it of us, Wardens. Do not dismiss us now."

"We do not dismiss you," Hannon says, shaking his head. "Your task is an important one, too. But we must do as we must do. We will see this oath we took to the end."

"And we will make it through this battle and see each of you again, Maker willing," Alixire concludes, crossing her fist over her heart. This does not have to be goodbye, not yet."

The friends and lovers reach out to each other, enjoying their life and safety for one final moment before everything is put back into question. No matter what they swear or promise, nothing is certain, and nothing will ever again be exactly like this, this gathering together of people who are whole and undamaged and tied to one another by fate. Even if they all return alive, there will be things broken and lost, and there will be the prospect of more separations to come when the cause they are fighting for is concluded. No matter how the story of their journey together unfolds, this is the beginning of its ending, the point of no return.

Slowly, one by one, they release each other. The Wardens gather their weapons and turn away from the damaged gate, looking instead towards the city's south where they can see in the distance a large winged beast skirting the sky and shooting blue fire from its mouth. They step forward toward the path into Denerim, hearts pounding in awe and fear, and make their way towards the burned red sky without looking back one last time at what they are leaving behind.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

On top of Fort Drakon, Riordan gives Arlindria the war horn tied around his waist. "The Archdemon seems to have been circling this area for a time," he tells her, gazing off at the shrieking creature in the distance. "I'm going to attempt to land on its back and remove the use of its wings. If I am successful, use that horn to signal to your fellows that they should hasten to your side. If I fail, you must try again in my place. Understand?"

"Yes. Fort Drakon is fully prepared with forces to attack the Archdemon when it lands, and Arl Eamon himself will be leading the charge. We should be ready to make our stand."

"Then may the Maker watch over us."

Riordan grasps on tightly to his blades and steps to the edge of the fort's roof. The Archdemon is nearing their location, its vast wings beating the air and sending gusts sweeping against the fort, sending a handful of men onto their asses as they fail to maintain balance. "Fan out," Arlindria calls to the soldiers when she catches an up close glimpse of how big their foe is. "Standing in formation won't do any of us good if that thing falls and crushes us all."

As the men spread out to form an opening on the roof, Riordan flies into the air when the Archdemon brushes up against Fort Drakon. Arlindria holds her breath in fear, but he manages to land safely on its back, clinging onto it even as it thrashes and attempt to throw him from the sky.

While the Archdemon circles over the Fort, determined to unseat its rider before continuing its circuit over Denerim, Riordan plunges a blade in its back, forcing an ungodly shriek from the beast and a stream of blue fire from its mouth as it protests in pain. "Raise your shields!" Arl Eamon cries out to his men as a ball of fire hits a part of the roof. "That was the first blow, but it's far from over."

Sure enough, the Archdemon's bucking increases after the strike, and this time it successfully tips Riordan from his seat. The Orlesian tumbles and flails for a moment, but his blade manages to impale itself on the dragon's wing, making a long, deep cut. Arlindria cheers for a moment before she realizes that the wing from which Riordan is dangling is unfurled past the walls of the fort. If he falls, which from her vantage seems to be an inevitability, he will not be able to land on any nearby surface.

But she has no time to witness his fate as the Archdemon begins to fall towards Fort Drakon, its legs kicking and thrashing in an attempt to slow its descent. Its back and tail are much closer to her position than she had anticipated, and she is forced to run to avoid being crushed by their weight. The Archdemon's body falls at a faster speed than she had thought it would given its weight, and when it finally makes impact, several of the men that had been standing beside her are taken down. Its tail is the last thing to hit, and as it comes closer and closer, Arlindria realizes she has been too slow. She tries to throw her shield in front of her face, but the tip of the dragon's tail rakes across her left eye and cheek before she can move.

Arlindria's body instantly explodes in sharp and burning pain, and she falls to the ground, desperately clutching at her bleeding wound. As she cries out in agony, a nearby soldier rushes to her side and fishes her out from beneath the wreckage of her portion of the fort.

"Warden," he murmurs, clutching her small body to his chest as the Archdemon begins screaming in anger and lunging for the nearest group of warriors. "Just a moment, I have a salve."

"It's too late. It's gone." Her tongue tastes the sharp tang of blood pooling around her mouth as it pours from her eye. "Don't waste your time and goods. Let me down to fight."

"Forgive my impertinence, but you won't last a minute as you are." The man sets her down against a wall and opens his pack, keeping one eye on the roaring dragon in case it turns its attention on them.

"But I'm right, aren't I? My eye is gone."

"Lift your hand and let me look." The man's immediate grimace tells her she is correct. "Yes, it would take a miracle for that to work again. But part of the wound can be closed, if you'll hold still."

"Very well. Be quick about it."

The man opens one of the jars in his pack and begins to treat the wound, wiping away the trails of blood as he works. "We won't be able to do much about some of these scars," he says, his voice barely audible above the shouting and screams. "But if you see a proper mage, it will speed up the process of having some of the skin grow back. It was by the goodness of the Maker that you managed to get away with only this, Warden."

"I don't believe in your Maker, human."

"Maybe now would be a good time to start." He rips off a piece of his robes and fastens it into a bandage over her eye. "That's as much as I can do for now."

"It's enough. My companions are what's needed now." She pulls the war horn from her waist and blows into it deeply. "Rejoin the fray, good ser. I will follow shortly."

"Good fortune be with you Warden."

"And you."

After a moment, she pulls herself onto her feet, wincing in pain. The blood has stopped, but the burning sensation from her eye hasn't lessened at all. Trying to ignore it, she withdraws her sword and practices her swings. Her perception is off, but her aim is true enough to suffice. The Archdemon is a large enough target for her to hit without too much error, though she knows too many mistakes will cost her her life.

_This eye will be the only thing it takes from me, _she vows. _The next time it dares strike me, I will have its life._

0o0o0o0o0o0o

A good amount of time later, the other Wardens emerge from their own fights, blood stained and singed in several places. Dulcia is the first to reach Arlindria, and the sight of her is a frightening thing to behold. Her entire top half is splattered with blood, and her helmet has several chunks missing, some reaching dangerously close to her own eyes.

"Oh, Maker," Dulcia gasps when she gets a good look at Arlindria. "Is that as bad as it looks?"

"I couldn't say," Arlindria laughs, trying to sound light hearted. "I can't see it myself, but judging from the pain alone, I would hazard to say yes. Are all of you well?"

"Better than you. Hannon took a pretty bad blow to the head, but Alixire was nearby to treat it, so no great amount of damage was done. Britomart is also short a few teeth, but she says that now that she's an Aeducan, she can get gold replacements in Orzammar."

"I am glad to hear it."

"You can pull back for now. Alain, Alistair, and I will take care of the head-on fighting."

"Pull back? You insult me, _Asha'nan. _I must get revenge on that vile thing for taking away something precious to me."

"Ah, I see." She smiles faintly before putting her helmet back on. "Try to take care of yourself, all right? It's not going well down there. We managed to save the Alienage and Market District from total destruction, but if any of us are taken down now, I can't say what will happen."

Arlindria returns her smile. "Don't fret. If I go down, I'm taking that thing down with me. I swear on it."

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Progress is slow, but Arlindria can tell when the Archdemon's stamina begins to flag. Many of its scales have been ripped off and torn open, and Alain has managed to make fairly deep cuts into its long neck. The wound Riordan had first opened is still dripping with tainted blood, and the tender skin around it is covered in Hannon's arrows and rows of careful slices from Britomart's daggers.

"It's getting too protective of its head," Alistair calls out to the Wardens as they regroup after being knocked to their backs yet again by a well placed lunge from the dragon. "If we could just get an opening, we could end it."

"Before it ends us, of course," Britomart groans, pushing back her disheveled and matted hair. "In a few more minutes, I doubt I'll be able to move anymore."

"My mana isn't faring well," Alixire says, catching her breath, "but I think I have it in me to do one more spell. I can trap the Archdemon into a spirit prison for a few seconds, and while it's vulnerable, you can get close enough to make a better strike. Judging from your wounds right now, I would suggest Hannon and Dulcia pull back and let the others take care of it while the mages tend to them."

"I'm just fine, lethallin," Hannon says stubbornly, even though his head wound has reopened and blood is leaking through the bandages.

"Shut up. Britomart will take care of the arrows while you sit out. She's a good enough shot to pin the legs down and buy us more time."

"I can just about manage, I think."

"The rest can spread out and try to hit the three vital areas. Alain can get the belly, Alistair the tail, and Arlindria the head. Strike quickly, and we may yet be able to finish this."

The three Wardens move to surround the Archdemon on each side as it engages Arl Eamon and a handful of elven hunters head-on. From a safe distance, Alixire begins concentrating her magic on the dragon, forming a bright ball of spirit energy which she hurls directly at the Archdemon's body. The light breaks apart and encircles the dragon, forming a cage of pressure to immobilize its massive form for a few precious seconds. Before the light has fully enclosed it, the dragon raises onto its hind legs in an attempt to escape, but Alixire finishes her incantation right before it can take flight. Alain leaps out from the shadow and impales it in the belly, sending a shower of black blood flying into the air as Alistair lifts his sword high and cleanly slices the tail that had ripped through Arlindria's skin in two.

Arlindria looks down to the ground, at the strong and steady stone, the stone that holds the soul of everyone, the stone that had seen her through to this very moment ever since she was a small and ambitious child dreaming of a glory that would pale in comparison to this. _I did not achieve what we had planned, Father, _she thinks as she lifts her sword. _But I have followed the current of my life, and ended up here. I am not ashamed. I could not be there to honor your death, but now I will honor all you taught me, and most of all honor myself with the strike of this blade_.

With a wild scream, she plunges her sword into the dragon's neck, falling onto her knees as fiery light and a shadow of taint flows from its body in a pillar to the heavens, filling the sky with a banner of victory for those who had fought through the impossible, through betrayal and abuse and every sort of loss and despair, to protect the precious place they call their home.

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**Coming Up: **Dulcia started the war as an orphan and the last of her line, but as she takes up the mantle of Queen of Ferelden, a new line begins from the remnants of the old.


	61. Dulcia: Rise of the Fallen Noble

**A/N: **We've reached the conclusion of Dulcia's part of the story. My goodness, it really feels like so long ago since I wrote the first chapter, even though it was only November. Dulcia has certainly grown up from the little angst monster she was at the beginning, as has our King of Ferelden, Alistair. I hope you've enjoyed her character & this final installment in her part in this tale!

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**Sixty-One. Dulcia: Rise of the Fallen Noble.**

Dulcia has always been a creature of pride. When she was a child, she wore it like a banner on display, unafraid of letting everyone around her know exactly who she was and what she could do. When she'd gotten a bit older, it had grown even worse as she became convinced, as people at that age often are, that she was invincible, incapable of failure. And then before she had been recruited to the Wardens, her pride was a rankled, snarling beast, lashing out at even the people who loved her for not understanding or appreciating her in the way she felt she deserved. If her pride was wounded, so too was she, but her pride had not been healthy in those days. It had been selfish and single serving, a way of focusing on herself and forgetting others.

Today, her pride swells higher than it has ever been, but only part of it is pride in her own achievements in saving Ferelden. The others beside her have an even greater share, from her fellow Wardens to the eccentric companions who had followed them along their way. But even more so than them, it is the sight of Alistair walking down the aisle of the throne room to the front of the gathered revelers that causes her heart to feel so full that she can hardly stop her tears. He is so different from the man she had met all of those months ago, so wiser, so happier, so _stronger_, but yet at his core he is still very much the man who had made her smile back in Ostagar simply by being himself and allowing his natural lightheartedness to throw off her inner darkness. What had started out as tentative feelings of affection had grown and blossomed right along with him, and now she feels with all her heart that there is no better person in all of the world, no man better suited to the throne he is ascending.

When he receives the Grand Cleric's blessing and turns to face his throng of admirers, he looks down at her and smiles, placing his hand over his heart so she can see the golden band around his finger, the promise of what is to come. She returns the gesture and whispers, "I am so happy for you, my love," even though he has no way of hearing her over the cheering masses, and even if he could, her words are pale shadows of the happiness she truly feels in the depths of her heart.

Alistair lifts a hand to silence the crowd. "My friends," he calls out, his usually jovial voice sounding a degree or two more kingly than Dulcia is used to hearing it. "Today we are gathered to not only celebrate the happy conclusion to our civil war, but to honor those responsible for the defeat of the Archdemon as well. And of those who stood against the darkspawn horde in Denerim, there are six here who deserve our special commendation. The Wardens who led the final charge against the Archdemon remain with us still, an inspiration to all they saved that day. Ladies and gentlemen, may I first present Alain Tabris, an elf from Denerim's own Alienage whose service to us has not only confirmed our unjust treatment of his kind, but has also placed his name among the foremost fighters of our time. To Alain!"

"To Alain!"

"And joining him is Alixire Amell, a mage from Ferelden's Circle Tower who has earned her freedom a thousand times over and shown us the reason why mages are a blessing upon our land given to us by the Maker rather than a curse. To Alixire!"

"To Alixire!"

"Hannon Mahariel of the Dalish has also proven our prejudices wrong by using his various skills and ancient knowledge to aid in our task and bring a smile to all our faces in our darkest hours. When the earth and birds sing of our victory, it is to his name they will do homage. To Hannon!"

"To Hannon!"

"And none fought at our side with as much ferocity and force of will as Britomart Brosca, newly of House Aeducan in Orzammar. We will long remember her spirit, determination, and fearlessness in the face of the most hopeless of fights. To Britomart!"

"To Britomart!"

"Her fellow countryman Lady Arlindria Aeducan has become the most steadfast champion of the Grey Wardens, and the one to land the finishing blow on the Archdemon itself. Her sacrifices during the battle will not be forgotten, and the one who was once first in the heart of Orzammar will now be held first in the heart of Ferelden. To Lady Arlindria!"

"To Lady Arlindria!"

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce my betrothed, your future queen, Lady Dulcia Cousland. She has been many things to us on our journey, from a comforting shoulder to a pillar of support, and a constant friend to a strong and ruthless Lady of Revenge. But to me... to me she is first and foremost the love of my life. And I will welcome her to her place at my side as soon as it can be given. To Lady Dulcia!"

"To Lady Dulcia! To the queen!"

Alistair smiles, joining in the cheers. "To each of the Wardens, I intend to give a gift of the highest order. And today, as a celebration of our engagement, I will give Lady Cousland hers. Will you come beside me, my love?"

Dulcia lifts an eyebrow and ascends the stairs to the throne. "Your majesty, the promise of being your life's companion is more than enough for me."

"Nonsense!" Alistair laughs. "Me as the reward for _saving Ferelden_? That would be like giving you a handful of dirt on your birthday. I have something much, much better in mind for you. Close your eyes and extend your hands."

"You aren't going to play some sort of trick on me, are you?"

"Tempting, but I'll save that for another time. Just close your eyes, dear. You won't regret it."

Dulcia obeys, waiting for him to place the gift in her hands. She isn't quite sure what to expect. It could be a puppy, but she already has her mabari (although Rolf hasn't been too keen on the idea of sharing his mistress), and she has no need for jewels or trinkets considering that she is to inherit every ornament collected by the crown. She could use a sword— considering her wariness of her own, which was taken from poor, devoted Ser Cauthrien's body in the Arl of Denerim's estate— but she doubts Alistair will reintroduce a tool of war right after the Blight's conclusion.

What she feels, when her gift finally arrives, is skin. Rough skin, thick with callouses and cuts, but warm and gentle and as strong as her own. The sensation of the man's tough fingers interlocked with hers is enough to bring back thousands of familiar memories, each of the same hand guiding her forward, taking her on adventures, and holding her steady when she is on the verge of falling down. She needs no other indication of who this person is; everything about his presence is familiar to her, the fulfillment of the wish she has long been afraid of holding out hope in.

"Fergus," she whispers, opening her eyes and throwing herself into his arms so forcefully that he stumbles back a little to catch her. "Oh Maker!"

"My dear sister. My sweet, sweet Dulcia." Her brother presses his lips against her forehead, brushing away her stray curls. "Just look at you. Are you really the same little pup who sulked around the castle?"

"And is it really you? I haven't lost you, too?" She lifts her hand to feel the bristly skin of his face. "Dear Maker, you are real. I thought... I was so afraid..." But she can say no more through her sobs, and simply buries her head against his chest as he soothingly runs his hands through her hair.

"Now, now. I am sorry to have made you worry. But even without me, you have done so well. I still can't believe my little sister is one of the heroes of Ferelden and is engaged to marry the _king,_ of all people. You have done as well for yourself beyond my wildest dream. I mean, I always knew you were destined for great things, but this..." He chuckles to himself. "I thought Father was crazy for sending me and leaving you behind when it should have been the other way around. But now I see it was all for a reason. It needed to be you Duncan saved on that day."

"But it was at such a price... Oren... Oriana... and Mother and Father, too." She wipes at her eyes furiously, though the tears do not stop falling. "I know they would be happy for me, but—"

"No, sister. No 'buts'. They _are _happy, and they would not want you to have a single doubt in your heart. They left you behind to do what they could not, and you've done it, Dulcia. Let there be no room for sorrow in your heart now. Only joy."

"Thank you for your words, brother." Dulcia draws away, her eyes glistening. "And if you ever disappear on me again, I'll show you the reason I was called _Asha'nan _during this war."

"Not to worry. If you ever seek to make me pay, I'll make sure to become friends with your husband and have him talk you down." He looks toward King Alistair with a smile. "What say you, brother? Shall you and I stand up to this force of nature?"

"Yes. Or least that's what I would like to say, but I think she has both you and I wrapped around her little finger."

"True enough." Fergus takes Dulcia's hand and passes it back to Alistair. "But take care of her, okay? I doubt she'll need it, but when she does, I'm counting on you to be there."

"I will be," Alistair says, gazing fondly at his future wife. "She knows I never intend to be without her, and even if we should ever find ourselves apart, my love will go with her wherever she goes."

0o0o0o0o0o0o

When the festivities in court have died down, Alistair returns to his room to find Dulcia sitting on his bed, unpinning her black curls from her keepsake comb. He watches her for a moment, smiling at her with quiet amazement until she notices his presence and reaches out to him with her bare arms visible from the loose sleeves of her robe.

"Now this is a sight I could get used to," Alistair says, returning her embrace. "You are much too beautiful for your own good, my dear. Maker knows how I'll be able to hold myself back all the time when you're around."

"It doesn't have to be _all the time_," she laughs, lightly tweaking his nose. "Besides, you managed all right when we were at war."

"You know, having people trying to kill us all the time really takes the edge of passion, doesn't it? That and the darkspawn stink. And your dog trying to kill me every time I got too close."

"Not to mention all that armor to take on and off."

"Really? I thought yours was quite sexy. Especially that dragonbone plate Wade made for you. I liked to brag to people that my lover was wearing the dragon she killed."

"I had help with that, remember?"

"All I can remember is half of us rolling on the ground trying to fix the fact that we were _on fire_. And, you know, the utter joy of having a dragon who'd been told she was Andraste _screaming in my face_."

Dulcia chuckles, resting her head on his shoulders. "I do so love you, silly man," she says when her laughter has died. "So much that I think I will go mad with it sometimes."

"Well, I do have a history of people telling them I make them crazy. Although I don't think they mean it quite like you do." He leans in, stealing a kiss. "I love you, too. Have I said that enough yet?"

"Never."

"Good. Because you still have the rest of your life to hear it. Look forward to it."

As he kisses her again, and a third time, and a fourth, Dulcia allows herself to fall into the heat of the moment and lets all her other thoughts slip away. She had entered into Ferelden's conflict to get revenge and prove herself, to soothe her bruised pride, but she had also gone to heal what she had broken with Dairren, and then with her parents. She doesn't have to dwell on it any longer to know she has found her way to the resolution she had most wanted, even though she had taken a long and twisted path to get there. Every touch of Alistair's skin against hers reminds her that what she has found in this new life she has made is something she will have to treat tenderly, something she will hold as the most precious thing she has ever had for her own, even more precious than the self she had once held higher than everyone and everything. It feels so relieving to have someone else to share her pride, someone else with whom to mourn and rejoice the burdens and triumphs of life other than her spirited, selfish self.

_You were right_, Alistair's breath and heat whisper against her as they lose themselves further into the moment. _Your heart was a good place to start, Dulcia Cousland._

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**Coming Up: **After receiving his gift from Alistair, Alain pays a visit to the Alienage and decides where he intends to go now that his war is finally over


	62. Alain: A Place in the World

**A/N: **And now we are all finished up with Alain. *sigh*. I really am very fond of the City Elf character, so I had a lot of fun working on him. Whenever I start a new game of Dragon Age, I spend the Origin Story figuring out what kind of character I've created based on their appearance, and, more importantly, how I feel they would interact with everyone around them. Alain's personality came to me faster than anyone's, and I'm really happy that I had the chance to write about him in my fiction. Hope you enjoyed!

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**Sixty-Two. Alain: A Place in the World**

Alain is just finishing packing up his room in the palace when King Alistair pops in to check on him. He doesn't have much to bring along for the journey to come; he's sold all of his heavy plate and excess of weapons, keeping only his best sword and dagger and a set of light mail for the road. He'd left the Alienage with only his blood stained wedding clothes and the sword Dulcia had lent him, and though he has accumulated so much more since then, there is really only one thing he feels he needs to take. The rest he is content to set aside, to put an end to the chapter in his life that had been spent in war and dancing the line between life and death.

"Zevran told me the two of you were going to visit the Alienage before leaving the city," Alistair says, leaning against Alain's bed-frame. "I'd ask if you were physically ready to start traveling again, but this is _you _were talking about. And I trust you to know when to take it easy and not push yourself."

"You should be more worried about Hannon, Arlindria, and your betrothed, your majesty. My injuries were nothing compared to theirs."

"As pretty as she is, Dulcia is as strong as a bear when she wants to be. The healers told her to take it easy for at least a week, but she lasted in bed for about a day after we got back, then started bounding around planning the coronation and sparring with her brother. And as for Hannon, he left right after the ceremony with his head still bandaged up. At least Arlindria is smart enough to stay put." Alistair shakes his head in amusement. "Anyways, I thought I'd catch you before you went off. I promised you a boon, and I mean to give you whatever you ask of me as a parting gift. Within reason, of course, but I'm sure you of all people will be reasonable."

"Anything you could do to help the Alienage would please me. I've had enough of having a blind eye turned to what happens there."

"Of course. What happened with Vaughn should not be allowed to happen again. And the rebuilding efforts we've started there means we'll have the chance to improve homes and clean up the messiness in the streets. But what I've been thinking of is a more personal solution." Alistair sits down beside Alain on the bed. "How would you feel about having an elven bann represent the Alienage? From what I've heard, King Cailan didn't have the faintest clue about what the lives of elves were really like, and I think it's true that no human can truly understand unless they are brought to empathize with the elves themselves. Having an elf's voice in court might go a long way changing the mindset in Ferelden, though I understand the process will be slow."

Alain considers the idea for a moment. "I think it has potential. You would need the right person for the job, someone who will be honest and a strong advocate, but someone who will not be brutal and give the shem reason to take greater offense."

"I was hoping you had someone in mind."

"Do you remember my cousin Shianni? She's a bit brash and impossible to tame, but she is fair and the most determined champion of the Alienage elves. And she knows that you are an important friend to me, so she won't be too impolite, I hope."

"I'll arrange to speak with her, then. With any luck, we'll make the Alienage a place worthy as the hero who came from it." Alistair rubs his chin and sighs. "It's a shame you'll be leaving. I didn't think of it until Hannon left, but life doesn't seem complete anymore without each of you in it. As happy as I am that I'll at least have Dulcia, I can't say I'm looking forward to the day when the rest of you will be scattered around Ferelden and who knows where else. You're like a family now, I guess."

"And we'll still be family, even if we go. Our blood binds us."

"True enough." With a sad smile, Alistair rises to his feet again. "But you will be happy, won't you? Promise me that at least."

"I promise," Alain says, extending his hand. "I won't let the chance at new life that Duncan gave me go to waste."

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"After the plague, I didn't think this place could get any worse," Zevran comments as they step through the Denerim gate into the Alienage. "I see the darkspawn proved us wrong."

Alain nods in dismay. For all the rebuilding taking place, there is still plenty evidence remaining of the darkspawn's invasion of the Alienage, from the obliterated bridge to the smashed and burned houses. His father's home had been far enough away from the heart of the invasion to survive, but it is one of the few still standing. Many of the Alienage's citizens are staying in Denerim's Chantry until the period of recovery has passed, and the streets have been kept fairly empty of anyone who might think it wise to pitch camp while their homes are being completed.

Shianni is waiting in front of Cyrion's house with Soris when the two elves arrive. "Well, if it isn't my cousin, the Hero of Ferelden," she calls out with a wide smile, throwing her arms around his neck. "You're a sight for sore eyes. Everyone's been talking about you so much that we've been getting homesick for your face."

"You should see it," Soris laughs, rolling his eyes. "All the children have this new 'Blight' game they've been playing, and they've been getting in arguments over who gets to be the two of you and Hannon. I try to tell them the Blight isn't something to joke about, but they're all too excited to have actual elven heroes around to care."

"A child wanting to pretend to be me?" Zevran muses. "And here I thought the day would never come."

"It would be better if you didn't see their interpretation of you. They caught wind of the story of Alain sparing you from the Crows, and have turned you into some sort of damsel in distress. They leave all of the manly fighting to Alain and Hannon."

"Do they, now? Well, I have some stories about my Grey Warden here that would disabuse them of _that _notion. Although he is rather good at manly fighting, I won't deny it."

"Spare the children your stories," Alain grimaces. "I would like them to grow into healthy adults, if you don't mind." He turns back to Shianni. "Is Father inside?"

"Yes, and he's been waiting for you. He'll want a private word, so we'll stay outside. Wouldn't want to intrude when you two get all embarrassing on each other." She leans forward to kiss Alain on the cheek. "And don't forget, Cousin. You may be the Hero of Ferelden, but to Uncle Cyrion, Soris, and me, you're a hero greater than that term can express. Your mother would be so proud."

Inside, Alain's father is waiting at their table, holding a plain wooden box between his hands. He looks up when his son enter the room, a warm look passing over his face. "My boy," he says softly, gesturing to the place beside him. "Come sit with me."

Alain pulls up a chair. "How have you been, Father?"

"Better then when you saw me last. Shianni made sure I was evacuated when the darkspawn came, and I didn't lay eyes on a single one. More the better for me, I'm told. They're hideous things, aren't they? Although perhaps not so bad as those Tevinter slavers." He sighs and shakes his head. "I've had much to think of, these days. It does my heart good to hear my son's name applauded in the Alienage and all of Ferelden itself, but it makes me think that if I'd had my way, none of this would have ever happened. You wouldn't have even learned how to fight from Adaia in the first place."

"Father..."

"I've spoken to Elder Valendrian about this, so I would have my thoughts collected before you came. My son, I... I have been burdened with a terrible guilt ever since you went away with Duncan. I knew as soon as you spent some time in the world beyond the gates, you would realize what I had done to you... of the knowledge I'd hidden from you. I'd been planning for your marriage for years, and Adaia always told me I was making a mistake, and even though I knew she was right, I didn't want to listen. Even if it cost you your happiness, I just wanted you to have a place in our world here." He purses his lips and stares down at the box in front of him. "There are some people in the world who are content to spend their lives like livestock, existing without any thought of dignity and purpose. But that was never Adaia. And it was never you, either. I should have acknowledged it, but I didn't. And I'm sorry."

"How can I hold it against you?" Alain says solemnly, looking into his father's eyes. "Tradition is a part of the Alienage. You only wanted me to be a part of the community where I was meant to belong so I would not be alone or be seen as a child when I was already grown."

"That shouldn't have stopped me. I should have fought for you. You are precious to me, my own flesh and blood, and I was ready to hand you off to a woman you would never even feel the slightest affection for and have you be a simple, unambitious man for the rest of your life. Adaia would have never forgiven me. I would have never forgiven myself." He clenches his fist tightly, looking pained. "She always had her words of wisdom, your mother, and I liked to hear them as much as you did. But there was one saying of hers that always troubled me. _There is no place in the world for you but the one you make for yourself. _I thought it was a bit harsh. _There is no place in the world for you... _well, let's just say that isn't something someone like me wants to contend with. But maybe she was right. Your place was never the one I tried to make for you. It is the one you have made for yourself. And I am so glad that you have finally found it."

He picks up the box on the table and passes it to Alain. "Here," he says, his voice suddenly unsteady. "I should have given you when your mother died. I was too afraid to do it then, but Maker knows you have proven to to me that you are stronger than the things I fear."

Alain slowly pulls the lid open and stares at the dagger resting inside. It's blade is crooked, and it is stained brown at the point, just like it always had been. When he fits his hand around the base, the memories of his body confirm that this is his mother's blade, the one she had used to train him to be the fighter he has become today. His touch would never forget those precious moments, the first times he had ever felt there was something he wanted in life, something more real than the disconnect he felt inside of his heart every day of his sheltered life.

Alain's throat and chest throb. He doesn't know what to say. He turns to his father and reaches out to him, fitting his face against Cyrion's chest just as he had when he was a child in need of comfort, and letting this simple connection between them say what he cannot.

"I know you cannot stay here," Cyrion says, his voice breaking. "I know you have someone you want to be with now, and places you still have yet to go. But know that my doors are always open to you, when you have need of rest. I will make up for failing you when you needed me, my dear, dear boy. I will become the kind of man who deserves to call someone as good and brave as you my son."

Alain voice is lost in the flood of emotions that overwhelms him, but what coherent thought he is capable of seeks out the memory of his mother, the thought of her looking down on them from wherever she is. _Rest peacefully, Mother, _he thinks, as he takes in warmth of his father's embrace. _The seeds you spent so long planting within us have finally grown as you wanted them. For the first time, I think we really, truly understand._

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zevran is quiet when they first leave the borders of Denerim and follow their compass north. They have no real agenda as to where exactly they're going— Zevran is anticipating having the evade the Crows at some point, or perhaps confront them directly, and Alain doesn't much care where they go, as long as they can be in some place of interest and manage to stick together. He figures they'll sort out the finer details as they go along. As Zevran had once said of himself, he is not half so good at planning as he is at love-making and killing, and Alain has already learned the advantages of allowing life to take uncharted, unexpected turns. He is nearly certain they'll manage to be content wherever they go, and if they aren't, they'll continue to travel onwards until they are.

"That's quite the nice smile you have on your face, my Grey Warden," Zevran finally comments, once they have found their rhythm on the road. "You looked so teary when we left the Alienage that I was worried your father had convinced you to stay on and try marrying your old betrothed again."

"He did the exact opposite. He even gave us his blessing, for what it's worth to you."

"Did he?" Zevran chuckles lightly. "He should be cautious sending his only child off with a man like me. I suppose I will have to take very, very good care of you if I am to be worthy of his trust. Although I say this, of course, while I'm taking you in the general direction of Antiva. Funny how that is."

"It doesn't matter," Alain says softly. "I've never feared danger. The only thing I ever feared was having a life I could not be satisfied with. And now that threat is passed, you can lead me wherever you may."

"And I will take you up on that with relish."

With a shared smile, they continue onwards, talking and laughing under the silent gaze of the night sky.

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**Coming Up: **Alixire flies back to her cage, not certain of what reception she'll find there, but praying that she has done enough for the one she loves most to want her at his side.


	63. Alixire: The Bird's Song

**A/N: **Alixire's turn to end things up! I think she managed to finish off still being my favorite character, although everyone else took their turn some point or another in this story. I just can't resist her connection to Cullen AND the fact that she is the cousin of the foxy Hawke overseas. This just makes me want Dragon Age 3 to come out so I figure out what role the Wardens play in the Mage-Templar war. Gahh. Anyways, enjoy!

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**Sixty-Three. Alixire: The Bird's Song.**

Alixire pauses her trek for a moment, shielding her eyes against the afternoon sun. "The Bannorn seems endless, but the road is beginning to shift back towards Calenhad's coast," she tells First Enchanter Irving as he takes a sip from one of the wineskins they had left the palace with. "If we continue along the Imperial Highway, it should not be long before we catch sight of the lake and Tower."

Irving wipes his brow and adjusts his heavy robes, which as always are too much for the warm weather. "Ah, I am too old for this traveling. Will you lend me your arm again, my child?"

"Of course, First Enchanter. Lean on me as much as you need."

They set off again as the road begins to turn south, away from the Coastlands and Amaranthine near the Waking Sea. About two weeks have passed since Irving had arrived in Denerim for King Alistair's coronation and the celebration for the seven Wardens of Ferelden, and at long last they are once again pointed towards home. Irving has promised an even better feast in the Tower than what she received from the King, but Alixire doesn't care about what else she puts in her already filled stomach. There is only one thing pulling her back to the Tower, and it has nothing to do with feasting and celebration, which she has already had quite enough of over the past few days.

"I must admit that you have made me a bit nervous about returning to Greagoir," Irving says as Alixire helps him along the highway. "When you asked a boon of our new king, I was half hoping you would request permission to resume your training as a future First Enchanter."

"I do not think Grey Wardens are permitted to be involved in those things as a general rule. Although I suppose our King and future Queen are already making an exception for themselves."

"Still. I would rather have to tell Greagoir that I am taking you under my wing again than inform him that you will be working together with King Alistair to reform the Chantry's position in the Circle."

"I do not intend to cast him out of his job by any means. As much I dislike the current Templar Order, they have their uses. They ought to be doing what they were meant to do by catching maleficarum, and maleficarum _only_. Not apostates or free mages. Not watching over people trying to live their lives quietly. And not caging mages who have already proven they can handle themselves outside of the Circle." Alixire shakes her head. "I have thought over the matter a long time. The Chantry believes this system is what the Maker and Andraste would have wanted, but that cannot be right. Since leaving the Tower, I have heard verses of the Chant, verses I never knew existed before. Had I heard them when I was younger, I think I would not have been so ready to doubt myself and fear the possibility of darkness inside of me." She closes her eyes. "_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder._"

"Only our hearts can make the choice between darkness and light," Irving agrees, squeezing her arms. "But it is fear just as often as it is greed that leads hearts to seek demons. Would that the Templars understood that. But you will teach them, my dear. In between tormenting them, naturally." He looks at her slyly out of the corner of his eye. "I did think you were growing fonder of one man of the Chantry at least. Or am I incorrect?"

"On that matter I choose to remain silent."

"Now there is the stubborn Alixire Amell I have missed." He lowers his voice. "You know, Jowan was returned to the Tower not long before I left. There will be nothing I can do to keep him from turning Tranquil, which may be for the best, since his body will always be at risk for becoming an abomination. But as soon as that boy laid eyes on me, he told me he had a message for you that you had to hear at all costs."

Alixire bites her lip. "What is it?"

"'No matter what I am when I see her next, I will only give her my forgiveness again if she is smiling'. When he said this, I was troubled on your behalf. 'Miss Amell has undergone so much in her time that I think it would hurt for even her to smile and be herself so soon,' I said. And he just looked at me and said, 'No one will hate her for smiling. Not me, not you, not even herself. What I would hate is to see her wearing a frown on her face in front of me and not be able to understand or feel that something is wrong. I would rather stare blankly at her joy than watch with apathy her unhappiness'."

"He said that?" Alixire bows her head, smiling through the tears prickling at her eyes. "No one ever says or does what I expect them to."

"And isn't that a blessing, my child?"

"We will see," she answers, placing her fingers to her lips. "We will see if everyone can allow this girl her heart."

0o0o0o0o0o0o

It takes her some time to find him. The reception area is filled with apprentices and even senior enchanters flooding her with questions about the Archdemon and the royal couple, and how long she plans to stay with them, or if she means to leave soon. She answers their questions with kindness, tossing back jokes with her old friends and laughs at the antics of the young children climbing on her skirts and calling her their hero. But all the while, her eyes seek him out, waiting for the moment when she can decide if she has returned home or come to a place she is no longer welcome.

The Chantry is empty but for a few scattered initiates praying in front of the figure of Andraste. She did not think she would find him there, but she lingers for a moment, closing her eyes and remembering the ghost of herself in this room, watching Jowan and Lily play out their secretive affection and feeling Cullen's tender eyes upon her. _How little time has passed, but it feels like so long_, she muses. _What would have happened if I had chosen differently on that day? But no, I did the same thing I would have done had I been given the choice a thousand times over. I would have chosen him no matter what life I had lived before I found him, as long as my soul had been my soul and my heart had been my heart._

After passing through some of the guard postings, she finds her way into the library, passing shelf after shelf until she finds the farthest corner where the books on Templar history are kept.

"You kept your promise," she hears him say, but doesn't listen for anything further before running into his arms and allowing him to catch and hold her there.

"You idiot," she hisses, not knowing whether to smile or cry or both. "You great, foolish idiot. I told you I would keep it, even if I took my entire life to do it. Am I the kind of person to say such a thing if I did not mean to do it with all of my heart?"

"Insult me if you will, but you are the fool for setting yourself after someone who swore against you. Why would a bird set free return to the shaky fingers that cannot hold her steady?"

"A bird set free is at liberty to do as she likes, even if it is something you cannot understand. And I am here now, so do not question it further than that." She smiles, reaching up to touch his short, golden hair. "Besides, everyone teases me for being the only virgin left in the group. I cannot let the insult stand."

"B-but I..."

"I know. I haven't been away so long that I've forgotten. I remember all the things we worried about before. Getting separated. Being kept apart. The both of us getting in trouble, just as Jowan and Lily have proved we can. But do you know what? It doesn't matter. Being a Grey Warden has taught me how to fight, and I _will _fight for us. What being a mage means is going to change in this world, I mean to see it change first in Ferelden."

"Maker help you. You always said things like that, and I always wanted to believe you."

"Will you now?"

"I can't say I am completely comfortable with whatever you have in mind. What happened here is something I'll never forget. And you cannot tell me that magic was not responsible. You hate blood magic as much as I do, and I can promise you that no one backed Uldred into a corner and put him in enough danger to warrant what he did. But I will grant you that _you _were not responsible. And you... perhaps the fact that you are here means you are someone I can put my faith in. If mages and Templars alike can't put hope in the Hero of Ferelden herself, then what was the point of anything you did?" His frown returns for a moment. "But don't get _too _greedy. I didn't take vows to throw them aside at my own convenience."

"But you love me, don't you? If you're going to break that vow, might as well go the whole way, don't you think?"

"You're being ridiculous!"

"Am I? Or is it just human nature to want what you love in every way you can have it?" She stands on her tip toes, bringing her face closer to him. "The Maker won't hate you for loving me. Don't you think it would make Him sad to watch you harbor _His _gift in your heart and do nothing about it?"

"If it meant forsaking Him when I swore everything I am to Him, wouldn't he?"

"I've never understood why the Maker would accept such vows to begin with. He has given us so much to love, so why should we choose only Him? He made me, and He made your heart the way it is. So please, don't be afraid to take each part of the life you were made for." She lifts herself higher on her toes, teasing her lips gently against his. "I'll always chase after you, until you do."

"Even if it means you'll end up places you won't want to go?"

"My happiness doesn't depend on places. It only depends on me and on you. That's it. So let's fly away together, you and I. Let's go wherever we like and be happy."

This time, he is the one who bends his head to meet her, and she accepts the gesture gently, allowing him to start at his own pace and move forward from there. _Thank you, Maker, _she prays with every ounce of her feeling, _thank you, thank you, thank for not taking him away from me. This is how we were meant to be from the very beginning. Loving You, loving Your world, loving each other, living our lives without having to worry if You hate us for the lives we've accepted. Even if it takes more time than I have, I will make this world a place where we will be able to live and love as freely as we wish, whether we be Templar or mage, human or elf, man or woman._

He pulls away and draws his thumb down the line of her jaw. "Welcome home," he whispers at last, and she can do nothing in response but smile.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **Without looking back, Hannon sets out alone searching for what he lost and is unwilling to let go of.


	64. Hannon: Hunt

**A/N: **Now for Hannon's ending (although to call it an _ending _seems a bit incorrect given how the Morrigan storyline continues). Our curious Dalish hunter has matured, but some things never change, and Hannon-who-hates-to-lose has something he is very much unwilling to let go of. I also realized in the middle or writing this that I never wrote a chapter about finding Tamlen among the darkspawn, and I am now quite annoyed with myself. I was so looking forward to writing it, but somehow managed to delete it from my chapter list before I started working on it. Grr. Anyhoo, life continues on for Hannon in any case, and it's time for his hunt to begin!

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**Sixty-Four. Hannon: Hunt.**

The Brecilian Forest is quiet but for the occasional chirp of birds from the branches of the sylvans and the chatter of wildlife as they bound across the untainted earth. Things have been calming down after the Blight, and life is slowly returning to its former path and flow, though Hannon can feel a shift running through the old ways, slight but palpable. The earth holds onto new secrets and knowledge from what it once knew, and this time he is at the center, the one fueling the change rather than the one witnessing and overflowing with wonder at the mysteries of the world.

He sits down for a moment on the forest floor and presses his hands to the warm ground, taking a minute to meditate on his surroundings. The birds sing of the fleeing darkspawn and the departure of the Dalish, but they cannot tell him of what he most wants to hear. They do not know if his friends' footsteps have begun to spread out across Thedas or what direction his love has gone to carry out her plans without him. They cannot know how long this new journey will take or if he will ever reach where he wants to go.

All he can do is have faith in the others, even if he will no longer be a part of their stories. He is sure he will hear whispers of them in the months and years to come, but that he will ever be able to fight alongside them again is something he cannot be certain of. Once he would have never guessed such thoughts would fill him with feelings of loneliness, but he feels a little less than himself now that he has left their company, as if he cannot be as alive as he once was when he was a part of them and had more than just himself to rely on.

_But this is the choice I had to make, _he reminds himself as a bird lands on his shoulder and begins singing into his ear. _They all have their own duties and lives to live, and I have mine. If the gods will us to find each other again, than so it will be._

When the bird has finished its song, Hannon turns his head to look down at it. "You haven't seen emma lath, have you da'len?" he asks, gently stroking it with the tip of his finger. "She has taken something very dear to me away, and I must get it back. But where should I go? Someone who does not wish to be found has a way of making themselves impossible to find."

_The heart knows, the body remembers, it always finds a way to the one it is meant to cherish. You found her against all odds once, and you will find her again if you do not give up hope in what passed between you._

"I see. It's like magic, isn't it?" Hannon muses, his fingers finding the ring he has worn since Morrigan had given it to him. "The ways we enter into and change each other's lives. She has altered mine, but I have also set her on a different path. That child she carries is the mark of it. As long as it has life, she will never be able to erase me. And there will always be a way for me to find her again."

_The heart knows, it carves the path. You must go, follow, follow._

He feels the pulse of magic beneath the ring, and he is filled with the sense that somewhere, wherever she has gone, she is thinking of him. She may tell herself that she no longer wants him to interfere with her life, but she was the one who had forged the connection between them, the one who had provided the means by which he could always be retraced and kept safe by her watchful gaze. _There are things in this world you can only have for a time before they go away_, she had said, but she hadn't gone away in the way she had meant to. She had left evidence of herself in him, and the words of love she had been so reluctant to leave him with still ring in his ears.

That night, the night before they had marched on Denerim and defeated the Archdemon, she had stayed by his side when the ritual was complete and watched him while she thought he was asleep. It had been hours before she would say anything, but at long last she had run her fingers through his hair and whispered his name and the words _my love_ in such a troubled voice that he could hardly stand not to embrace her and tell her to quit her foolishness and let him be a part of the child's life. She wasn't— still isn't— the kind of person whose boundaries he could push all at once when her will was already set, but he already knows from experience that her defenses aren't impenetrable. She had fought and fought against falling in love, but she had still done it, in spite of herself.

"Ah, she should know better than to put so many things in questions and leave me without answers," Hannon tells his bird with a laugh. "If she thinks I will not wonder over the fate of my child, she does not know me as well as she believes she does. When I think of it in my mind, I do not see a being filled with an Old God's soul or even a pawn in whatever schemes are to come. I see a child of my being, one that will need a father's guidance as well as a mother's. I see a life, one that I am responsible for creating. And no one, not even emma lath herself, will be able to keep me apart from the blood of my blood."

_The heart knows, the body remembers, it knows everything your mind does not. Follow the path you are meant to walk, follow, follow._

He extends his fingers for the bird to hop on to, and then lifts them so it can fly back to its comrades in the trees. "Ma serannas, da'en," he calls after it. "But I have guidance for you as well. Keep both eyes open for what awaits us all. My Wardens and emma lath are going to change this world you live in, so you'd best prepare yourself for the coming storm. Even you will not be able to remain as you are, little bird."

With another light laugh, he rises to his feet and hooks his bow onto his back. There is so much land in Thedas, so many places she can go and run away to. But the land she has at her disposal is the same as what he has, and he knows the voice of nature just as well as she does. There is no doubt in his mind that his feet will guide him to her, even if he must spend months in solitude searching every corner of the world for her trail.

Hannon turns in the direction of Denerim one last time. "Dareth shiral, lethallins," he whispers, unfolding his hand over his heart. "Lath sulevin lath aravel ena arla ven tu vir mahvir melana 'nehn enasal ir sa lethallin. _Be certain in need, and the path will emerge to a home tomorrow, and time will again be the joy it once was_."

After a moment of silence, he raises his head and follows the wind blowing west, onwards to follow the path to whichever conclusion it will lead to.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Coming Up: **After receiving unexpected news from Orzammar, Britomart is left with more possibilities than she anticipated upon the end of the Blight. Will the former Duster accept the kind of life she wants or continue the fight against her nature until the very end?


	65. Britomart: What is Meant By Love

**A/N: **Now that Britomart's conclusion is being published, we are at last approaching the last chapter. I am so thankful for all the support I've received thus far; without it, I doubt I would have made it this far this quickly! I hope you continue to enjoy the last two parts as much as I have enjoyed writing them for you, and thanks once again for your patience with me and my huge undertaking in writing this.

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**Sixty-Five. Britomart: What is Meant By Love**

"It's too bad," a man's voice whines from outside Britomart's chamber door. "Lady Cousland's by far the best looking of them, but she's already spoken for. King Alistair snatched her up before the rest of us could even think twice. It isn't fair."

"The mage that left a few days back wasn't too bad. She's got pretty eyes, just like a shy little doe."

"Yes, but she's a _mage_. I still say Lady Cousland's the one to have, and King Alistair's a lucky bastard to have her. If only the rest of us could get our own Hero of Ferelden for a wife. They'd make good lovers, don't you think?"

Britomart grits her teeth, placing her hands over her ears. All she wants is a few hours of sleep, but such a thing seems impossible in the Royal Palace. Even though the coronation had concluded weeks ago and three of the Wardens have already left to follow their own paths, much of the court has stayed on in Denerim, taking advantage of the time of excitement in Ferelden to spin legends and tales of intrigue of their new king and beloved heroes. The presence of Alistair has kept many admirers a safe distance from Dulcia, but a sizable train of suitors has cropped up around Arlindria, and to a lesser extent even around Britomart herself. She has taken to warning them off with her daggers, but Alistair has since begged her to show a little decorum while in the palace, or at the very least save her more colorful insults for the lesser nobles whom it costs less to offend.

"There's the dwarves," one the voices resumes, still sounding grieved at the loss of the beautiful Lady Cousland. "A little on the short side, but they're not bad to look at. They say the blonde one cut off the Blighter's head, so she's the real hero. Do you know if dwarves even go for humans, these days?"

"Haven't heard of it, but who's to say? I wouldn't mind the dark one, myself. Everyone says she's got a mean tongue on her, but they say girls like those are the best in the sack, if you get my meaning."

Britomart calmly got out of bed, and unhooked her daggers from her waist before opening the door. "Would you like to say that again, human? This blade hasn't tasted any blood since the Archdemon, and it's getting thirsty."

"See what I mean?" the man says, looking more intrigued than put off by her threat. "No need to get all fiery, lassie. Even if you're cold, I'll still be hot for you."

"Oh, that is IT!"

"Britomart!" Alistair barks from further down the hall. "Friend or not, I'll still have to arrest you if kill off my courtiers."

"They started it."

"I'm sure they did, but you'd best learn to keep your temper in check while you're here." He turns to the two men lingering by Britomart's door. "My lords, I'd advise you to keep your distance from this one. She'll have no qualms in chopping off your parts if you speak out of turn to her."

"We were just having a bit of fun, is all."

"And killing you would have been fun for me, but I suppose I'll have to let you live for now." Britomart returns her daggers to her waist. "Now get out of my sight before I change my mind."

"Better do it," Alistair advises. "I need a word with her alone, in any case."

After the two men leave, grumbling bitterly of the king hogging all the good Grey Wardens, Alistair gestures for Britomart to return to her room and take a seat. "I'm sorry to be a bit late with my gift for you and Lady Aeducan," he begins, pulling letters from his pocket. "But I suppose it takes some time to get things approved in Orzammar, as we learned when we had to help out with their king situation. This letter is from your sister, but I want you to read this other one first. It contains good news from the Assembly."

"What, have they decided to belatedly pardon my 'crime' of killing Beraht? Or forgive me insulting the sanctity of the Proving? I can't imagine they would do much else for me, those sodding old fools."

"Took a look it. You'll see."

She unfolds the letter and begins reading quietly to herself. It begins with the usual ceremonial rambling about the esteem the dwarves hold for the Wardens, and the history of the dwarves' involvement in fighting Blights. According to the Shaper of Memories, while the Children of Stone have always been included in the Grey Warden Order, there has never been a case of them actually playing a notable role in slaying an Archdemon. More often than not, it was a human male leading the charge and gaining the glory for the darkspawns' defeat.

"This is a bad joke, even for you," Britomart snorts, throwing the letter down on her bedside table. "Your reward is subjecting me to a history lesson from the Assembly and Shaperate?"

"That's what it says? I'm sure if you'll read further, they'll get to the point. I hope."

"Fine, fine. This better be worth my time, or else I'll be the one rewarding you for giving me this with a few whacks to the head."

She picks up the letter again and reads from where she left off. The next paragraph is devoted to explaining Orzammar's less than favorable view of surface dwarves, as if she had somehow forgotten during her time away from her birthplace. Skimming over sentences about how she has turned her back on her Ancestors and the stone itself, Britomart at last settles on a promising paragraph starting with the qualifier 'however'.

_However_, she reads, mumbling under her breath, _the Assembly is aware that the races of Ferelden see surface dwarves as representative of Orzammar at large, and your position as a Grey Warden marks you as someone who has left the stone with honor and has served as an exemplary model to all dwarves, whether in Orzammar or on the surface. In the history of Thedas, never has a Blight been quelled in such little time, and never before have dwarven Wardens been as instrumental to its defeat as you and Arlindria Aeducan have been. It would be pleasing to the Assembly, Shaperate, and crown if more of our kind followed in your footsteps and looked to your example to become better warriors and protectors of Orzammar._

_ In this spirit, we would like to make known to you that House Britomart has been opened in Orzammar under your name, with you, Paragon Britomart Brosca, as it's founding-_

Britomart's fingers shake, and the letter falls to floor. "Is this some kind of mistake?" she whispers. "Are they making fun of me?"

"Not all," Alistair says with a kind smile. "They even sent me the plans of the statue of you and Arlindria they're going to put up in your Hall of Heroes. They don't look a thing like either of you, but for Arlindria at least it's an improvement on her wanted sketch."

"Casteless don't become Paragons," Britomart replies flatly, not daring to believe in what she has just read. "Even if we can manage to get into noble houses, Paragon is too much of an honor for a Brand."

"But you aren't casteless anymore. You're a Grey Warden, and what you have done is beyond what all the lord and ladies you consider above you can even dream of. You're as good of a Paragon as they can get, you know. Minus the whole whacking people on the head and blood-lust thing."

"House Britomart," Britomart repeats to herself, dumbfounded. "House Britomart. Any dwarf born in my House will bear my first name as their last. There were be children roaming the streets of Orzammar with my name. I can even make the House filled entirely with people from Dust Town if I want, and no one will be able to stop me. Because I am Paragon Britomart Brosca of House Britomart." She wrinkles her nose. "Does that sound as ridiculous to you as it does to me?"

"A little bit," Alistair says sheepishly, "because you'll always be the girl who screamed BY THE BEARDS OF MY ANCESTORS at the top of her lungs when pestered by Wynne. But I'm not lying when I say you deserve this. Besides, weren't you the one who said you would save your family and do it with honor? I can think of no honor greater than this. You did what you set out to do and succeeded a thousand times over."

"Strange," she muses. "I'm not used to that actually happening. It would make more sense if I ended this whole thing imprisoned and hated by nearly everyone, just as I started out." She folds the letter and presses it against her chest. "Well, I guess this means I can go back now. If I want to. I have a House to build, after all."

"Will you? I thought you may have a reason or two to stay a little longer."

Britomart glares at him. "Nose out of my business, human."

Alistair laughs and gives her hand a little pat. "Orzammar sure knows how to pick nutcases for their role models. You'll do a fine job, I think. Just stay away from anvils and the Carta, and you'll be well on your way."

"Stay out of trouble, in other words?" Her lips curl into a satisfied smile. "And when, King Alistair, have I ever done that?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Leliana is practicing on targets with her bow on the training field when Britomart finally finds her. After hitting a perfect bull's eye and realizing Britomart's presence, she sets aside her weapon and reaches out to pull the dwarf into an unwanted and suffocating hug.

"I heard the news," she cries out as Britomart tries to wriggle away. "Our two beautiful dwarven Wardens, Paragons of Orzammar. The Divine would have quite the shock to find out my chosen companion is nearly akin to a pagan god. I have done well for myself, I see."

"Don't press your luck," Britomart grumbles, at last disentangling herself from Leliana's arms. "And don't call me pagan. To me, you are the one who is pagan."

"I know, but it is still very daring of me, yes? But even this is part of the Maker's plan. He led me to you for a reason, and I believe in his plan with all my heart."

"No more of that," Britomart says, though for once with a degree of gentleness she rarely granted to conversations regarding the Maker. "Things just happened to work out this way, that's all. It doesn't have to be anything more than that."

Leliana smiles knowingly, but doesn't pursue it any further. "What do you plan to do now?" she asks instead. "How does one go about forming a House?"

"We usually start off with our own family, and then branch off into families who support ours and have will swear to our service. I only have my mother, such as she is, and a handful of distant cousins. Perhaps even Rica, if she chooses my House over House Aeducan. But I think I know several people back in Dust Town who wouldn't mind being elevated in rank. Of course, all the people who abused me for laughs back when I allowed such things to happen will be out of luck." She shakes her head. "But I still need to wrap my head around all of this. In Orzammar, all I wanted was to be in the warrior caste. This is beyond all my expectations, and when I remember the kind of person I was when I left, it seems so wrong that I have all of this in my name."

"You aren't who you once were. You've grown, just as we all have."

"But it doesn't seem real. I thought I was going to spend my whole life stuck unchanging as the person the Carta made me to be. Sometimes I still think I'll go back, as if nothing has happened." She turns her face away and bites her lip. "You... I have something to ask of you."

"Yes?" Leliana says softly, silently noticing the change in Britomart's mood.

"I'm already breaking tradition by being a casteless Paragon who intends to bring even more casteless in my House. I might as well push a little further, while I'm still getting away with it. Which I might not. Even Paragons have expectations to follow, and I don't think anyone has ever invited a human to be a part of a dwarven House before. I might annoy the Assembly, but that's what they get for making me a Paragon in the—"

Leliana put a finger in front of her lips with a gentle laugh. "Am I going to have to accuse you of all people of rambling? I would ask that you tell what you mean outright, but I don't think you're capable of it at the moment. If what you're trying to figure out is whether I would like to join you as your companion and partner as you begin to form your House, my answer is 'yes'. I would like that very much."

Britomart sputters, her skin flushing. "You... you're pushing your luck again, with the way you phrased that."

"I have to, with you. You are very hesitant to be forthright when it comes to these matters. I learned that from the very beginning."

"Look, it's just that..." She clenches her fist. "You know, just because I've figured out a few things about accepting that which I've always been hated for doesn't mean I can erase all those years of feeling like a freak. If I am not bound in some way, I'm going to end up running again. And I don't know how likely it is that I'll be caught twice." She folds her arms over her chest, closing herself off. "That's the way I feel. Nothing more and nothing less. It hasn't been a bad time here on the surface, at least not as bad as what I'm used to. It's possible that I don't want that to go away if I go back."

"Possible?" Leliana massages her forearms, easing them open. "More like definite. And I am flattered that I am the part of it you want to take away with you."

"You're—"

"Pushing my luck. Yes, yes, I know." She leans forward and presses a kiss against the tattoo on Britomart's forehead. "You may be the Paragon of the two of us, but I will be the first person who you will be unable to run away from, all right? That is my gift to you, for all you have done for me."

Britomart grimaces, but inside she feels oddly full, as if her heart is being overwhelmed by more than just anger or bitterness. _So this is..._ she thinks to herself before cutting the thought short, even though she is aware of the word she would conclude it with and of exactly what she is feeling at this moment. _But_ _when you say you love her, what do you mean? _she asks herself, wondering if this time she will be able to find the answer, if there will be room for certainty in her heart, or only doubt.

Leliana rests her forehead against Britomart's, lifting her fingers to brush against the Brand Britomart has always hated as if it too is a treasure, something to be treated gently. It feels right, natural. Like flowing along with a current, or breathing in and out unthinkingly, as if she is finally stepping into herself, the person she was born as before she was clouded by the thoughts and opinions of the world around her. Her breath catches, and she closes her eyes.

_What if... _she realizes, her heart thrumming both a soothing and wild beat in her chest, _what if all this time, _this _is what it meant?_

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**Coming Up: **Though becoming Paragon has restored Arlindria's rightful place in Orzammar, King Alistair has more in mind for the former princess as she decides what she wishes to do following the Blight


	66. Arlindria: The Flower's Bloom

**A/N: **And the long journey is at last complete! I've had a wonderful time, and it's all thanks to my readers and fans who have supported me along the way. Every read, favorite, follow, review, etc spurred me forward, and I'm really pleased with how everything turned out at the end. So once again: THANK YOU READERS! You are this writer's heroes, and my final wish for you is that you enjoy our final segment! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

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**Sixty-Six. Arlindria: The Flower's Bloom.**

It is still early in the morning when Britomart and Leliana set out for the Imperial Highway en route to Orzammar, and Arlindria is grateful for the silence and stillness around her, and most of all for the absence of her constant throng of supporters from King Alistair's court. She is well accustomed to attention from her days as the favored heir of Orzammar, but the reception she has received in Denerim feels odd to her, and in many ways less fitting. Her popularity in her native kingdom had been built up over a long span of time, but she has only been a part of the surface of Ferelden for one cycle of seasons, a short span of months in her twenty year life. She can still remember her first unsteady steps on the Frostback Mountains, and the journey she had taken from that point to this seems all too swift, a surreal blur that had unfolded and reached its conclusion before she even realized that she had become an entirely different person than she had expected to in the process.

She gazes down at the main road, waving a goodbye to her two companions. Had it been only a few months earlier, she would have been walking with them, returning home to Orzammar to form House Arlindria alongside House Britomart as a proud Paragon of her people. As much as she had wanted redemption in the Grey Wardens, a part of her had always thirsted to refill the place she had lost, to take up her old mantle of glory and give her family the happy ending ambition had cost them. Her old self would have used her position as Paragon to find her way back to the throne and restore her former history to its proper place in the Memories, removing the stain of Kinslayer as if Bhelen had never dismantled her to begin with.

Instead, she had simply written a letter to journey to her homeland with Britomart in her place. The wives and children of Trian and Bhelen were to keep the name House Aeducan and manage in her stead, remaining a House that promoted honor, integrity, and strength of character rather than the twisted morals Bhelen had tried to instill during his time as House Aeducan's head. They would become the allies of House Britomart and assure that Orzammar kept its crown as the greatest of all dwarven kingdoms by embracing the strengths of all its members, from the casteless to the deshyrs of the Assembly. And most of all, they would make sure all of the children born into the House understood the ties of family and how quickly everything could unravel if their love for others was lost in their love for themselves.

It had been a hard decision for her to make, but now as she looks down at Leliana and Britomart as they tease and argue with each other with the natural air of two people going the exact direction they need to go, she feels content. She is supposed to be here, just as surely as Britomart is meant to go to Orzammar and Hannon is meant to follow after Morrigan. She understood this from the moment King Alistair had asked her to stay, and knew that when the time came to choose between leaving and returning to what she was or staying and finding a place in the new life she had made, there was only one road she would be able to take, one road that would follow the path of the dream in her heart.

Alistair's gift to her had been different from everyone else's. He had given her the letter announcing her as a Paragon with a sheepish smile, and then said, "I hate to do this, but I'm going to be the one asking a boon of you, Lady Aeducan. Selfish, I know, but that's the sort of thing we kings have to learn how to do."

"Of course," Arlindria had laughed. "You must learn to demand the sun and stars without apology, and then turn and lay them down humbly at the feet of your people. What do you wish of me?"

"Dulcia and I are having... trouble... with the issue of our advisors. Wynne has agreed to stay with us for a time, as has Fergus Cousland until we can secure to Highever to his care. Arl Eamon was also supposed to stay with us, but there have been growing concerns on that score, I fear. Many of King Cailan's belongings had remained locked during the civil war, and Loghain had been unable to have them opened without the keys Anora kept hidden. Dulcia got her hands on them, and has recently started sorting through his papers and correspondence. She has uncovered some troubling exchanges between the king and Eamon that make her hesitant to give the position of chief advisor directly to him."

"Truly? He seemed a rather uninteresting sort of man to me."

"Apparently Anora was suspected of being barren, and Eamon was encouraging Cailan to annul their marriage and marry someone more fertile. Maintain the Theirin bloodline, and all that."

"Ah, yes. Cailan alluded to something like that when I met him."

"I suppose it's a valid concern for an advisor to have, but let's just say that we can't have such concerns existing while Dulcia and I hold the throne. Eamon probably hasn't recalled that Grey Wardens very rarely are capable of having children, much less with each other, but as soon as he remembers this little detail, he'll probably start thinking of ways to make sure my marriage to Dulcia never happens. And then Dulcia will probably kill him. A situation I would like to avoid, if possible."

"So are you going to make endless attempts at having children with Dulcia, or find someone less dead set on the 'rightful' line of kings to stand at your side?"

"Both, ideally. And when we tried to think of someone with experience and smarts to lend a hand, we naturally thought of you." Alistair had paused as Arlindria processed this, looking thoughtful. "Although this would be only for a short interim, until we have to develop our official council as the King and Queen. There is actually a position we both think you better suited for opening up after that."

"And that is...?"

"The Crown has seized Howe's lands in Amaranthine, and Dulcia has asked we set aside Vigil Keep's for use of the Grey Wardens to build into the seat of Ferelden's Warden-Commander. Which we were hoping would be you."

Arlindria's mouth flopped open like a drowning fish. "Me? You would like for me to be Commander of the Grey?"

"Who else? You've always been the best fit from the very beginning. No one else has your focus and dedication, least of all your leadership skills and experience. And more than anything, the Wardens need someone who can unite various peoples and build a stable foundation of support. Our Order took quite a blow in Ferelden, and it will be an arduous task to rebuild. If you're up to it, both Dulcia and I would be honored if you would accept."

"Warden-Commander. Advisor to the king of Ferelden." Arlindria shook her head in amazement. "Are you sure you want to pile so much responsibility on such a small body?"

"Ha! Don't say that to someone who watched you send the Archdemon's head flying. Besides," he said, pointing to the gold and embroidered eyepatch her rescuer from Fort Drakon had given her to replace the one made from his ripped robes, "the eyepatch will be good for morale. You _look _like someone who needs a heavy load of authority."

"On a pirate ship maybe."

"A dwarven pirate? I don't think that one has been done before." Alistair chuckled in amusement. "Oh, and if you don't answer either request right now, the begging will start. Dulcia told she'd let Rolf eat all the roast tonight if I messed this up."

"Very well," Arlindria said, setting aside her letter from Orzammar. "We can't have the king go hungry, can we? I'd be happy to assist you on both matters. As long as I get official eyepatches to go along with the titles. And a pirate ship."

"I'm sure that can be arranged. I probably have some Royal Wardrobe Manager in reserves that I can lend to you for your eyewear. Or you can have your friend sew you another. The one you're wearing right now is quite good."

The announcements about Amaranthine and King Alistair's temporary council had gone out a few days later, and Arlindria's decision to allow Britomart and Leliana to leave without her became common knowledge among her supporters in Denerim. Instead, Arl Eamon and the soldiers from Redcliffe were the ones withdrawing from court to return home, trailing quietly in the distance behind Britomart as they make their own way down the Imperial Highway back towards the south.

Arlindria shields her eyes from the sun as the caravans from Redcliffe at last enter her field of vision. She feels somewhat sorry for Arl Eamon, who had been expecting the position Alistair had passed on to her after all the work he had put into making a rightful Theirin king, but at the same time, she knows he is most likely safer in Redcliffe than he is around a threatened Dulcia. _Besides_, she thinks, leaning her back against a nearby tree as she watches their progress, _there is nothing about blood that determines a ruler. It is determination of mind, strength of heart, and a dream with such power that no one can destroy it. Even if Dulcia never has a child, there will always be a child born to be the king. When the world needs that child, it will make a way for them to find their place. That is why all of us found ourselves here, after all. We are here because we were needed, and we were needed because we exist._

As the Redcliffe soldiers make their way past her post, she makes to turn back towards the palace before she hears her name being called out by one of the men. She glances over her shoulder to see her former rescuer breaking formation to greet her one last time, ignoring the protests of his comrades and general to stay in line.

"Are you well, my lady?" he asks, glancing in concern at the marred skin around the eyepatch he he had given her. The scars have lessened in color since they were first formed, but they're hardly pleasant to look at, even for the person who'd seen her ripped open skin streaming with blood. For the first time, Arlindria wishes she wore her hair like Britomart, long and easy to hide behind when necessary. "The healers at court are treating your wounds daily, I hope?"

"No need to worry, ser," she says, clearing her throat. "I have been waited on more often than I can handle since losing my eye. Rolf has started trying to become my guide dog while I get used to the shift in perception, and nearly all the servants are convinced that I am incapable of doing anything for myself anymore. I am looking forward to proving them wrong."

"I am glad to hear of it." He looks nervously down at his feet for a moment. "Er, I hope you don't think there's any bad feelings from Redcliffe over what happened with Arl Eamon. We all think you'll do a good job, and we're only sorry we won't be staying in Denerim to support you ourselves. You're very popular, you know. With, um, just about everyone."

"That's kind of you to say."

"I'm not just saying it. You're the hero who saved us from the Blight. There were the others, but when we looked up that night, you were the one who stuck the blade through the Blighter's neck. I don't think anyone will ever forget that sight. I even got a medal for being the one to take care of you after you were hurt, and I barely even helped at all. It was all because I did it for you, the Hero of Ferelden."

"Ah, about that," Arlindria says with a sigh. "The medal was more well earned than you know. If I had my way, I would have gone right back to fighting and might have gone into shock or gotten myself killed. And besides, I remember being quite rude to you when you tried to help. If you have found it in your heart to forgive me, then that is enough thanks for me. I will be happy to once again wish you well and gladly repay the kindness of people like you with my work in Denerim and Amaranthine."

"In that case, I too will wish you well and look forward to the Ferelden you will assist our king in building." He opens his pouch and pulls out a white flower picked from the surface. "We found this growing on Arl Eamon's estate, and thought you might like it," he says softly. "It was the prettiest in his gardens, probably one of Arlessa Isolde's, but it seemed more fitting for you. If you would like, please accept this and know that you have the goodwill of Redcliffe on your side. We are thankful you were here."

"And I was thankful to be here, my good ser."

She holds the white flower in the palm of her hands, remembering the first one of its kind she'd been given back in Orzammar. She'd known little of how to take care of it at that time, and had allowed it to die alongside her when she'd been driven to give up hope. But this one, this will be something she will treasure. This one she will teach to thrive and grow, to reach the height of its potential, to take in the sun, to stand and tall and live no matter what elements and forces come. This one will never have to learn the sorrow of losing its precious reason to bloom, fading to dust before its purpose is realized.

_To find a purpose is the heart of existence, and mine is to be here, _she thinks to herself again, smiling through her tears as she waves the Redcliffe soldiers onwards and gazes at the distant silhouettes of Britomart and Leliana's backs. _I was born to become a Warden of Ferelden, Father. Your foolish girl is at last at peace._

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